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Chapter Text

Autumn 1813

Alderaan, September 8th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

Although my dear mother has prevailed upon me to send this letter, her insistent machinations are likely to stop just short of actually reading the words I write. Thus, I hope you will forgive me—or actually, do not forgive me, for it is no concern of mine—if I state plainly that I have no desire to marry, let alone propose by letter to a young miss I have never met. I vastly prefer the company of horses and hounds to the unenviable fate of being saddled with a wife and hounded by the very same.

Very respectfully and uninterestedly not yours,

Benjamin Solo

—

Stewjon, September 22nd

Dear Mr. Solo,

Although my dear uncle has urged me to write to you, I must confess that I would have replied to your correspondence in any case, for I must impress upon you that your appallingly rude words were both completely unnecessary and unduly insulting. While a gentleman may have plainly stated polite disinterest, your deliberately discourteous remarks and uncalled-for valediction in fact demonstrate that you, sir, are no gentleman. “Saddled with a wife”? I rather think that the unlucky creature would be saddled with you. I myself would vastly prefer a life spent with my own horses and hawks as my only companions to the unenviable fate of enduring a moment in your assuredly boorish company. 

With all due respect—that is to say, very little indeed,

Rey Kenobi

—

London, October 5th

Miss Kenobi,

Truly it is the height of hypocrisy to accuse another of boorishness when you yourself take great pains to insult, malign, and vex the recipient of your letter at every biting turn of phrase. Were I to enumerate each of your incorrect and frankly hurtful conjectures, I would run out of paper before I could finish, so I shall limit myself to correcting you on two points alone:

Firstly, many members of the ton find my company quite sufficient, my manners genteel, and my conduct acceptable, so your accusation of boorishness is clearly unfounded.

Secondly, despite your insinuation that a wife of mine would be unhappy with her lot, I can assure you that I would take the duties and responsibilities of being a husband very seriously indeed—which is yet another reason I do not wish to wed, for I have responsibilities enough at the present moment.

In closing: you accuse me of being no gentleman, but I see nothing in your words to indicate that you comport yourself like a lady.

Most assuredly a wronged man,

Benjamin Solo

P.S. As I have not informed my mother that the urgency with which I have penned this letter is only due to a burning need to refute your unjust accusations, she bid me include this miniature of me she had painted last year. You know how mothers can be—it is impossible to sway her once she has set her mind on something. If you mock my looks, then I shall know truly that you are no lady.

—

Stewjon, October 29th

Mr. Solo,

You have made so many churlish statements that I hardly know where to begin.

Perhaps here: I fear that “quite sufficient” and “adequate” are such dilute recommendations to your personage that I am not convinced of your genteel nature—I think it more likely that your rank as heir to a dukedom, not to mention the privileges afforded to your sex, lead those “many members of the ton” to overlook your disagreeable behaviour and instead flatter you with feeble compliments.

Your audacity truly knows no bounds, for you defend yourself as a gentleman and malign my character as a lady practically within the same phrase. No true gentleman would treat a lady thus; were I a man, I would call you out for it, for I question whether you take your honour as seriously as those responsibilities that keep you too busy for a wife, thought not too busy for riding and hunting and correcting young ladies whose opinions you profess not to concern yourself with.

Alas, while a man may defend himself with a sword or a pistol, Society demands that women wield only words. And if repartee is to be my limited battleground, I must have the right to name your ungentlemanly behavior when I see it, whereas your choice to stand with sword close to hand and question my gently bred nature only proves my point. That is, no matter how pretty your penmanship, or occasionally witty your turns of phrase, I remain convinced that your words are not those of a gentleman.

On the subject of pleasing looks that belie the unpleasant substance beneath, let me surprise you by acknowledging—nay, complimenting—your good looks. To insist that you are unhandsome would be to lie, and I am no liar. Therefore: your proud nose, dark eyes, and strong jaw assemble themselves into a pleasing face, and your hair—if the painter has not exaggerated overmuch—is admirably thick and wavy enough to justify its longer than fashionable length.

However, as I have sworn myself to be both forthright and truthful, I must also remark that your attire is so dark and stiff I am surprised the painter managed to capture it. A black cravat combined with a black waistcoat and black jacket? Have you grievances with all the more interesting colours? Perhaps blue, green, yellow, &c. are less inclined to put status before conscience, than your acquaintances in Town?

Finally, I do not in fact “know how mothers can be,” for my own died when I was but three years of age, shortly followed by my father. I confess myself surprised Lady Organa did not inform you of why I live under the guardianship of my great-uncle, but perhaps you are too entirely focussed on imagined slights to pay attention to the situations of those you consider beneath you.

A lady in both station and conduct,

Rey Kenobi

P.S. Upon seeing your portrait, my great-uncle insisted I also sit for a miniature to send. I cannot bear to explain that the man named for him has grown up to be such a disagreeable knave—so mock away, sir, compare me to the most beautiful and fashionable of the ton, enumerate my flaws that I might show my great-uncle your next letter and thereby succinctly demonstrate the utter impracticability of a union between us.

—

London, November 12th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

I rather think you have no need of a sword or pistol, for your words are sharper than a blade and pierce deeper than a bullet.

First and foremost, I must apologize for my foolish and inconsiderate remark on the subject of mothers. Had I paused to think, I might indeed have recalled hearing that your parents did pass when you were young. I am very sorry for your loss, and I deeply regret any fresh grief caused by my callous words.

You need not forgive me on that score, but please believe me that the following words are honest and not motivated by guilt over my aforementioned blunder: I can find no flaws in your shining chestnut locks, the curve of your lips that hints at some clever thought the viewer is not privy to, or the fire in your lovely eyes as you glare at the poor miniaturist. The most beautiful of the ton cannot hope to compare.

And between that fire in your eyes and your cutting words … my lady, I suspect that you are in your true temperament as gentle as your hawks, but I mean no insult by that statement. The only ways in which I consider you beneath me are not fit for a lady’s eyes to read. It would be a shame for a bird of prey to deny its nature and eat oats instead of mice, and a spirited mare is infinitely more interesting than a placid one.

As for fashion, your dress is rather outmoded, but, as you have deduced, the majority of my own wardrobe is of a single hue. I care little for what is considered fashionable and thus cannot censure others on that score without the worst kind of hypocrisy, so I shall note only that the pale golden colour is most fetching on you.

Sincerely,

Benjamin Solo

—

Stewjon, November 27th

Dear Mr. Solo,

That was a very pretty apology in your very pretty penmanship, so unfortunately I cannot use your letter to dissuade my great-uncle’s high opinion of you, and am therefore obligated to respond. As for forgiveness, we shall see—you have at least earned yourself a reprieve in the matter of my cutting words, though I make no such promises when it comes to a piercing wit.

Since you made a (somewhat convoluted) comparison between a spirited lady and a spirited mare, perhaps I shall imagine you as a showy stallion—great in stature, proudly convinced of his own importance, and descended from a long line of similar thoroughbreds. One can only hope that this haughty stallion proves worthy of his expensive pedigree.

And since I need not pretend to a gentle temperament—though I maintain that I am possessed of genteel manners—I must acknowledge an intense curiosity regarding the words that you so exasperatingly attempted to strike out. Fortunately, I was able to hold the paper up to the light and comprehend the sentence regardless. What is meant by “the ways I consider you beneath me” if not an insult, and why should such a thing not be fitting for a lady to read? Whenever anyone says “not fit for a lady’s ears” they are either speaking of sins such as gambling debts, drunkenness, &c. or of tupping, and I do not see how any such subject applies here, so I insist that you enlighten me. Perhaps it will assist in the matter of my forgiveness.

Your various compliments seem quite excessive, but perhaps that is the norm among the fashionable set in Town, so if I grant your honesty the benefit of the doubt, I find myself dubiously convinced that your ramblings about chestnut locks and lovely eyes were meant in earnest. Well—as I have professed to genteel manners, I must thank you for your flattering words, though I also recommend that you have a doctor evaluate your eyesight, for you may be in need of spectacles.

Spiritedly,

Rey Kenobi

—

Alderaan, December 13th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

Better a showy stallion than a disagreeable knave—I am honoured to have risen so greatly in your esteem.

Still, I must remark that at most two of four comparisons within your extended equestrian metaphors have any degree of accuracy. My father was only elevated to his status as a gentleman thanks to heroic deeds in the Navy, and has no gently-bred line of forefathers. Perhaps, since this happened before either of our births but following your great-uncle’s retreat from Town life, you may not know that my grandparents Duke Bail and Duchess Breha Organa petitioned the Crown for an especial exception; a dispensation allowing my mother and her husband to inherit the title and estate of Alderaan, following my uncle’s decision to become a man of the cloth.

My father’s worth was measured by his own efforts during the war rather than the station of his ancestors, and he has taught me that the former matters a great deal more than the latter to most people in this world. My mother, meanwhile, attempts to impress upon me that a noble’s duty to the people, the Crown, and their family is of the greatest import; implying but stopping just short of declaring outright that it is my duty to make the Solo family name as great and noble as the Organas once were.

Thus, whether because of this perceived lack on my paternal side—largely forgiven but not forgotten by the ton—or the extensive pedigree on my material lineage, I do devoutly hope that I will prove worthy of the title I will someday inherit. Unfortunately, the criteria for such “worthiness” and a successful execution of that duty remains frustratingly vague. I am more beset by reminders of my supposed importance than convinced of it myself. However, I am possessed of a notably tall stature (forever forcing me to stoop through low doorways and causing my tailor no end of grief), so you are correct upon that point at least.

Regarding the struck-out words you insist I expound upon … let me only say that one of the subjects you mentioned is more or less accurate. I apologize for writing such improper words in the first place. Frankly, it is already quite improper for an unmarried lady and gentleman to be corresponding privately; my mother and your great-uncle seem to be overlooking that impropriety to enable this scheme of theirs, yet I am certain that they would be vehemently displeased were they to discover that I had penned such a phrase. If this limited explanation is not enough to earn your forgiveness, I shall endure the consequences—for I am, despite one or two ill-founded accusations to the contrary, still determined to comport myself in the manner of a gentleman.

Your most humble and yet showy stallion,

Benjamin Solo

—

Stewjon, December 30th

Dear Mr. Solo,

I dearly hope you shall find it within your heart (if you indeed have one) to forgive me for the great sin of creating equestrian-themed metaphors that were not perfectly applicable to the complexity of your own family tree. (That was a jest, in case you do possess a heart but lack a sense of humor—truly I cannot tell whether some of your phrases are merely dry or are purposefully penned with a dry wit.)

On a more serious note, while I cannot pretend to understand the obligations, &c. you have as the heir to the Alderaan dukedom, your musings on worthiness and duty struck a chord within me (a somewhat melancholy tone such as E minor, perhaps). I cannot determine what makes me worthy of the trouble and expense my great-uncle has gone to for me, not least because we had never met when he undertook responsibility for an obstinate, frightened orphan not yet seven years of age.

I feel I have a duty to Lord Kenobi in both familial bond and thanks for his generosity; he could have easily shuffled me off to the care of some mediocre nanny and outfitted me in the plainest of dresses, but instead he has shown me great affection, hired excellent governesses for my education, and given me as fine a wardrobe as I imagine belongs to any country lady.

Yet I do not know how to fulfill that duty—or indeed if it can even be fulfilled in its entirety—so I am constantly at sixes and sevens trying to determine if there is some way I can repay his kindnesses. Perhaps I am lucky that he does not outright insist on a union between us, for I would have been quite torn between pleasing him and begging for a reprieve after your first letter!

And speaking of our letters, I come now, Mr. Solo, to the main thrust of this one: you need not apologize for writing improper words—you had already said far worse things in your earliest correspondence, I am sure—but rather for refusing to fully explain them! I care not what your parents nor my great-uncle would have to say, for they were not the recipient of your letter. Surely there can be no harm in expounding upon what you meant if I promise to pardon you for any accidental offense in advance, can there not?

And moreover, surely there is greater harm in keeping others ignorant than in the sharing of knowledge. My great-uncle, likely in the hopes of convincing me to entertain your non-existent suit, recently mentioned that you read the classics at Oxford. Thus, you must be familiar with Seneca’s words: “Nothing will ever please me, no matter how excellent or beneficial, if I must retain the knowledge of it to myself. And if wisdom were given me under the express condition that it must be kept hidden and not uttered, I should refuse it.”

In fact, as to the matter of education, it seems everyone expects young ladies to be educated on many subjects (playing the pianoforte or harpsichord; embroidery; watercolors; sums; the running of a household; the planning of dinner parties, soirees, and grand balls; how to engage in pleasing conversation with everyone from the King to the greengrocer; and at least a smattering of French, Greek, Latin) … and yet we are frequently told that certain mysterious things are not suitable for our delicate ears or eyes.

Well, I do not think my ears and eyes are so much more delicate than those of the young stableboy or the gardener’s apprentice, despite their sex and station—and as I am educated in all of the above subjects and have lived a full score of years besides, I think I should know my own mind (& ears & eyes) better than anyone else.

If these arguments have not assuaged your scruples, perhaps consider explaining your words and relieving my dreadful curiosity as a belated Christmas present. My great-uncle says that Alderaan is quite beautiful at this time of year, with a dusting of snow upon the trees and sparkling frost covering the ponds. Stewjon, being much closer to Hadrian’s Wall, is currently covered in snow up to my thighs—which perhaps sounds picturesque, until you imagine trying to slog through it in the early morning to reach the stables before the footmen have swept the courtyard clean, or reckon with the dangers of the icy mud as it melts and refreezes and melts again. I shall be glad when it is spring.

Most heartily wishing for an educational New Year,
On the above subject for my part, and on gentlemanly virtues and manners for yours,
I remain,
Your snowbound but still spirited correspondent,

Rey Kenobi

Chapter Text

Winter 1814

London, January 17th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

A very happy New Year to you and Lord Kenobi. I daresay the perilous yet picturesque winter you describe in Stewjon would be vastly preferable to my current environs in Town, which is exceptionally damp and dreary this time of year. My mother and I are accompanying my father on some matters of business—that is, keeping him from getting in a scrape with other members of the House of Lords while Parliament in in session, for he does not enjoy participating and gets upset whenever anyone attempts to quote statistics to prove that the needs of the few (usually the speaker and their ilk) in this instance outweigh the needs of the many (whomever the speaker does not like), all while insisting they in fact have the needs of the many at heart.

It is all so dreadfully boring and full of hypocrisy. It is difficult to comprehend how Parliament ever manages to act as a competent legislative body, and the whole circus is a damned (I know you shall decipher that word regardless, but I have stricken it out in an attempt to retain what manners I can) inconvenience for all in our family, for it is my mother who possesses all the understanding and opinions, my father who possesses the all-important vote, and myself who must learn to muddle along by himself someday. For now I can do nothing but listen to everyone around me argue about whether wheat prices reaching seventy-one shillings per quarter is dire enough to warrant allowing foreign imports or if that shall only occur at seventy-two shillings per quarter.

I’m afraid this letter must also be quite boring thus far, so let me attempt to move on from the subject of grain prices (dear God, do I wish everybody would move on from the subject of grain prices!) and answer some of your earlier inquiries, both implicit and otherwise.

I do indeed possess a heart, for I can feel that organ beating in my chest, thumping a little faster at the sight of a letter arriving from Stewjon which no doubt contains some new bon mot perfectly crafted to deflate any self-importance I may possess after the young lady there last used her sharp wit on me. I cannot presume to say whether or not I possess a sense of humor, for I think such a thing rather subjective; and besides, if I say I do not have one you shall tease me most dreadfully, and if I tell you that I do, you may likewise mock me for having a poor one. Perhaps you will find yourself in Town one day, or I will journey north to Stewjon, and you can attempt to discern for yourself.

Your argument regarding the convoluted expectations applied to young ladies has merit. My bluestocking mother would in principle quite agree, though I daresay she would deliver a severe reproof should she catch wind of the subject in question. I shall not say you have convinced me that elaborating on this matter is a wise course of action (and I devoutly hope you will abide by your promise not to hold those struck-out words against me), but I find myself driven to recklessness by my curiosity regarding your response. You must promise—nay, swear—that the enclosed pamphlet will never be seen by any eyes but yours, and that if it is somehow glimpsed by another person, you shall conceal that it was I who sent it to you.

Reluctantly at your service as a purveyor of educational material,

Benjamin Solo

—

Stewjon, February 1st

Dear Mr. Solo,

An “inconvenience,” he says, to be among the rarefied few who can shape the laws the rest of us must obey. Perhaps I shall again grant you the benefit of the doubt (see how generous I am feeling today!) in that the matters of Parliament do sound quite the opposite of convenient. But it is clearly much more than an inconvenience—perhaps an unenjoyable privilege, but a privilege nonetheless.

If you have an informed opinion on wheat prices, I do not doubt you could add your voice to the mix, or find some way to remind everyone that the matter at hand may be larger than the precise number of shillings per quarter. From the manner of your writing, I suspect you can be quite charming and persuasive to Society at large, even if your initial gaffes have thankfully rendered me quite immune to your charms. Your mother and father—and no doubt the people of Alderaan—are fortunate to have a son who is learning to muddle along before, rather than after, all the responsibilities of the estate fall upon his shoulders. (Not to mention a son so dedicated to furthering the education of others, as I shall discuss presently.)

The pamphlet you sent is as illuminating as it is improper. I do understand what a risk you took in sending it—I thank you for your pains and do so swear that none but myself shall know of its existence. Are such monographs on the subject of a lady’s pleasure, &c., commonly found in Town? I did not know humans could perform the act in so many more ways than horses and sheep do!

In light of this new information, I have re-read your previous letter and the poorly redacted sentence therein. I suppose I ought to be appalled, that you dared picture me in conjunction with such an activity, but I fear such a reaction would be hypocritical in the extreme. As you have falsely accused me of hypocrisy once already, I shall not give you cause to do so again; thus, I must forthrightly admit to equal—or at least equivalent—improper imaginings inspired by certain passages and diagrams within that highly educational material.

Of course, if you think to censure me or tell another soul of my transgressions, I shall have no choice but to reveal the origin of the pamphlet in the first place, so it is in your own best interests to hold your tongue (and your pen) on that score.

Despite a newly expanded imagination, I am,
A lady capable of the utmost discretion,

Rey Kenobi

—

London, February 16th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

Your confidence in my powers of persuasion comes as something of a surprise, but since you generously granted me the benefit of the doubt, I shall do the same, supposing your words to be sincere rather than mocking. (In addition, I suspect any mockery would be of the direct and unmissable variety, that my ego might feel the full force of the blow.)

However, I assure you I am better with written words than spoken ones—you, more than any other, know how ill-considered even my written words have been upon past occasions. (Do you truly think me charming now that we have moved past our initial misunderstandings?) It is possible that my rather monochromatic wardrobe and unfortunately looming stature are what preclude me from being charming and persuasive, but I think rather it is my lack of desire to engage with those of limited sense and social graces which have garnered me a reputation for genteel manners but a stoic mien.

On the subject of those with limited sense, the mothers (and some elder brothers) of the families who likewise find themselves in Town during the winter are even worse than the members of Parliament when it comes to lacking subtlety, no matter how often I attempt to convey polite disinterest (perhaps now you comprehend why I might inadvertently express disinterest to the point of being impolite). Do you likewise endure more attempts at matchmaking? I am heartily sick of this town, simpering debutantes and even not-yet-debutantes, and, most of all, the endless talk of grain prices. The discussions of Napoleon’s advance are only slightly preferable, for my father has explained (at length) what very little the peerage knows of real war, making their unfounded speculation and braggadocio grating in the extreme.

What news from Stewjon? I am eager to quit this blasted city and return to Alderaan, and even hopeful that I might have occasion to travel further north in the spring. I do hear that young ladies there have quite the imaginations—as well as forgiving natures—and I am curious to know more on that score. In particular, when you speak of “equivalent” scandalous thoughts, do you mean to say that you had a certain individual in mind when considering the acts illustrated in that pamphlet?

I remain,
A gentleman supporter of ladies’ education,
And yours most especially,

Benjamin Solo

—

Stewjon, March 2nd

Dear Mr. Solo,

Have you considered a brisk morning ride to clear your head of nonsensical rhetoric and marital machinations? I find that frustrations caused by others—indeed, frustrations of any sort—are much lessened when I am galloping through the fields on my horse rather than suffering the company of other people, and that doing so each morning enables me to look forward to the next day’s excursion during any tedious social engagement. (Yes, even in the country we participate in tedious social engagements, though perhaps they are not so dazzlingly arrayed as the ones in Town.) If you ever find yourself in Stewjon, I will show you the best trails and meadows for a good hard gallop.

On the subject of scandalous thoughts, sir, I must remind you that I am a proper young lady (though possessed of both an excellent imagination and a reasonably forgiving nature), and I would never engage in improper behavior, such as corresponding with an unattached gentleman or re-reading certain pamphlets by candlelight. Certainly I would not find my piqued curiosity coming to a curiously delightful peak, nor let thoughts of a Solo nature enter my solo practice.

Is that an acceptably thorough answer to your line of questioning? Lest your ego reign unchecked, I shall also remark that I have never said I find you charming, merely that you have your charms. So does broccoli, when prepared properly, so do not mistake a few complimentary crumbs for an entire cake.

As for other news from Stewjon, the snow is at last melting and spring seems around the corner—and not a moment too soon. Lord Kenobi is not in the best of health, and this winter has been a hard one. I am hopeful he can take in some fresh air without catching a chill, that he may soon feel more himself and shake the (in his words) “uncivilized” cough which plagues him.

The hawks are the least bothered by the snow, for they need not trudge through it and can fluff their feathers up to stay warm. The horses and I are well enough, but restless. I also pray my great-uncle will shake the notion that I ought to be at last presented at court this year. I would not mind traveling outside Stewjon, though by your account London has not much to recommend it, and I see no point in going to the expense of having a Season only for the ton to mock my country manners. Moreover, I have no mother or elder siblings to help me navigate the undoubtedly treacherous landscape of fine Society.

Do not think me ungrateful for my lot! Despite my parents’ untimely demise and lack of titles, I know I am fortunate to have been raised in the household of an Earl, with a loving (if curmudgeonly) great-uncle who cares for my welfare. And I am grateful to have found an unexpected friend—if I may lay claim to that status after our many months of correspondence—who shares my lack of desire to be sold off on the marriage mart, and who takes great pains to further my education. It is a shame it would be a scandal for us to be known as friends in Town!

Your scandalous friend, if you wish it,

Rey Kenobi

—

Alderaan, March 17th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

The fact that I have further risen in your esteem, from showy stallion to scandalous friend, is perhaps as great an accomplishment as I can imagine. I am likewise grateful for our friendship, and all the more so for its unexpected nature. In general I prefer solitude to the endless rules and simpering stares of Society, or the unscrupulous debauchery many of the young men in Town engage in (I refuse to elaborate on that front, so do not even think of asking). But I suspect Man was not built for so much solitude; it leaves me as restless, I imagine, as you and your horses during winter.

I hope Lord Kenobi is recovered from his cough and you are enjoying a return to warmer (or rather, not as frigid?) weather. Unfortunately, I do not know when I might be able to visit Stewjon, for my own father has taken ill. The doctors say he has a weak heart, which is a peculiarly wretched diagnosis for a man who lives in a most hearty and vigorous manner. He is not yet so old in years, but the doctors tell us he may not live to see next winter, especially if he continues riding, drinking, and sporting as he is wont to do.

My mother, for all her independent nature and bluestocking sensibilities, will undoubtedly be devastated by his loss and is already driven to distraction as she attempts to cajole, command, and censure him to desist from drink and sport. I wish to assure her that she need not focus on anything but his health and her own, yet I fear the household will fall into disrepair without her capable hands at the helm.

You have been managing Lord Kenobi’s household for some years, have you not? If you have any advice for a man adrift, I entreat you to grace me with your wisdom, for I am at my wits’ end attempting to untangle my father’s affairs on his behalf, let alone oversee menus and the household staff and so forth.

You see, I love my father, and as a landlord he is much beloved by our tenants (for he has no compunctions about helping to thatch roofs, &c. with his own two hands), but he is not an organized man. Worse still, our previous steward was neither organized nor responsible in his bookkeeping, leading to a great muddle that I am attempting to sort through before I must officially take up the title. The new steward and I have been working our way through the estate’s ledgers—if they can even be called such, for they are an appalling mess.

Forgive me for rambling on about these dreary matters. I ought to more often make time for a morning ride as you suggested. It is simply that there is so much to do and no one who will do it if I do not. Truly, I think your letter was the first thing to put a smile on my face in weeks (which, you may be amused to know, led to some difficult questions from my mother, for I could hardly reveal to her that I was smiling over a most particular passage in your letter about solo practice). I am pleased to hear you are making good use of your expanded education, though I find myself envious of the candlelight which has the good fortune to caress your flushed cheeks and parted lips.

But never fear—my ego remains well in check, for I have a dear friend who will compare me to broccoli to ensure I do not become too high in the instep.

I must return to the tedium of the ledgers. I am sending this express, for I beg you will write again soon and grant me another reprieve.

Your devoted friend,

Benjamin Solo

P.S. In answer to your question, such pamphlets are not precisely common in Town, but there are an increasing number of vendors selling brochures and newsletters of all sorts, including the highly improper, and I must admit I saw that particular one and thought of you—that is, of your desire for further education. And on the subject of Town, I think your beauty and wit would have you become the incomparable of the Season, with any “country manners” deemed quaintly charming, though your tendency to upbraid rude gentlemen might prove trickier for the ton to countenance. I would not have you stifle your spirit to endure the vipers’ nest that is the marriage mart, but if you do find yourself planning to attend the Season, you must write to me immediately so I can be there to claim a dance.

P.P.S. I have been wrestling with myself over whether I can ask an additional favour of you (if it is bad form of me to request two favours in one letter, I beg you will forgive me, as you have forgiven me more churlish things in the past). Each and every time someone addresses me as “Mr. Solo,” it reminds me that, the moment my father passes, “Mr. Solo” will cease to be my appellation and everyone will instead address me by various ducal titles and honorifics. Might I ask you to call me by my given name, for that at least will remain the same no matter my station?

Spring 1814

Stewjon, March 29th

Dear Ben,

I will acknowledge that it feels strange to address you with such informality, but I will of course honour your request to dispense with “Mr. Solo,” and I have decided that “Benjamin” is simply too long and cumbersome (unless I am quite cross with you, in which case you shall know it by my use of your full given name). I shall have to think on whether I can allow you to address me in a similar manner, as of course I am a proper young lady and would not normally encourage such informality with a man not of my family. Perhaps you can petition for the honour of such a familiar address.

On a more serious note, I am very sorry to hear about your father. I only met him briefly, when he and your lady mother visited Lord Kenobi some years ago—while you were at Oxford, I think—but he seemed in spirit very good-hearted indeed. I agree that it is a cruel irony for such a man to suffer from a “weak” heart—I shall pray for him to defy the odds the doctors have given him.

I am enclosing a small watercolour of the view from the terrace at Kenobi Manor in the hopes that it offers you a little of the same peace you might find riding, even when you cannot go out of doors. The chestnut horse depicted in the field is Kestrel, my favourite mare.

Unfortunately Lord Kenobi’s health has not improved, and he has revealed to me that his title and estate will pass to a distant cousin who currently lives on the continent. He has never even met the man, yet somehow this society’s slavish devotion to lineage makes him the heir to Stewjon! I do not fault my dear great-uncle for the fact that ladies cannot inherit in their own right (unless of course there was a vote in Parliament on such a matter that he did not bother to attend—which I doubt, for it is the House of Lords and not the House of Lords and Ladies, after all), but it is frustrating in the extreme.

Thus, it transpires that I have a favour to ask of you as well. Do you have any acquaintances with young children, whose households might be in need of a governess? It is likely considered plebeian for an Earl’s great-niece to seek such work, but I do not mind hard work nor the tender chaos of children. My only alternatives are to rely on the mercy of this distant cousin I have never met, or to arrive in Town well before the Season and somehow attempt to ensnare a suitable husband, which would require leaving my great-uncle’s bedside. As you can no doubt imagine, neither of these scenarios fill me with great confidence in my future. (Although it would be great fun to dance with a dear friend of mine, that we might playact and fool the ton into believing we are meeting for the first time.)

As for my qualifications as a governess: I am fluent in French; can read and write in both Latin and Greek; play the pianoforte with proficiency if no great virtuosity; dance very well, at least by country standards; have passable skill with needlework and watercolours (as you can see, in the latter case); and am of course educated in grammar, arithmetic, geography, and civil and natural history. (I am fascinated by the works of Newton and of Edmond Bradley, but only know what I have been able to glean from my own reading, for tutors in mechanics and astronomy do not seem to be available for young ladies.)

I know young children can be illogical and obstinate, but I do not think I should mind—I myself have obstinacy to spare! I always longed for siblings, so I believe I would prefer the busy life of a governess to the lonely one of a childless spinster. If it is possible for you to inquire about, I would be most grateful.

Speaking of arithmetic and a busy life, for the past several months I have also been keeping the accounts for my great-uncle, for he refuses to leave it to the steward, and is lately not often well enough to maintain the ledger himself. Our estate is quite a small one, so I can only imagine what a mess you are suffering if the Alderaan accounts are in such great disrepair. The mere fact that you care to try and sort out the mess, especially before you have taken up the title, indicates to me that you will do an excellent job in the role whenever the time comes. I have surmised through our correspondence that you are sensible, thorough, and suffer no fools—which is to my mind, if not strictly a virtue, then certainly an asset as a future duke.

Regarding your household affairs, I would advise you to speak with your housekeeper, butler, and cook, for they shall know better than I, the needs of your particular household and what you might do to ease your mother’s burden. And if you can do so without enduring too many uncomfortable questions regarding our correspondence, please pass my best wishes to Their Graces—they, and most of all you, are in my thoughts.

With a heavy heart but determined spirit,
Your friend,

Rey Kenobi

—

Alderaan, April 12th

Dear Miss Kenobi,

I thank you for your kind words—likely unfounded though they are—regarding my capability when the time comes for me to inherit my father’s title and responsibilities. He has now joined my mother in wishing to see me settled, I think partly out of earnest desire as a father and partly because his new and more restful routine means that teasing me is a welcome source of entertainment.

For my part, I am sorry to hear that Lord Kenobi’s health continues to decline, and that you are left without a relative you may rely upon. I can certainly write to a couple of acquaintances from Oxford who might have need of a governess. I am sure you would excel in such a role and any family would be lucky to have you guide their children, though I think it a shame that such work would limit your own freedoms and opportunities.

Selfishly, too, I must admit concern about such a scheme, for I fear that any respectable family would question our correspondence and perhaps disallow it entirely—and that is, to my mind, not to be borne. You have become the truest friend I have, and know more of my own thoughts and fears than I think anyone ever has. It is only now that I look back and realise how alone I felt before I had a friend who can both soothe my anxieties and put me in my place with unique aplomb.

There is a solution to both our predicaments, if you will have it. Or rather, if you will have me—though I fear I am making a muddle of this. Let me begin again (though without striking out words, for I know you would decipher them regardless).

When we first began our correspondence, I believe I said something to the effect of refusing to participate in my mother’s ridiculous scheme wherein I might propose by letter to a young lady I had never met. As it turns out, my chiefest objection is now the “by letter” part, for as you can tell—or perhaps, conversely, if you cannot tell—I am doing a very poor job of it. I have grown used to spilling all my thoughts on the page that I might hear your clever rejoinders and insightful remarks—and now that those thoughts are all muddled, I cannot seem to stop. 

Very well—I shall attempt to be at least slightly more clear, for I do not wish you to think I have changed my mind on the matter of marriage out of desperation or pity. Indeed, that could not be further from the truth. My previous reluctance to take a wife was founded on the supposition, that it would increase the weight of my responsibilities and distract from recreational activities. I now suspect that if I were lucky enough to wed a particular young lady, both our burdens would be lightened, our responsibilities halved by being shared, and we could engage in many pleasurable pursuits together, both in and out of doors.

Furthermore, I no longer object to the young lady in question—indeed, I have grown quite fond of her, though I cannot pretend to understand why she would name her horse after a kind of bird. And although we have never met in person, I long for that day; yet, at the same time, I feel as if we already know each other. After all, we have shared much greater intimacies and deeper conversations by letter, than we would ever have been allowed to in chaperoned conversations while courting.

In case my meaning is still not clear, I shall state it plainly: I would be honoured if you would have me for a husband.  I can think of no one else I would wish to be my wife, and I promise to do all within my power to make your life in Alderaan a happy one. There is currently no mews for keeping hawks, but one can easily be built. We have excellent fields and trails for riding, and a stable of fine horses, including:

◆ Three Thousand Falcons (or "Falcon," like her dam and grand-dam), 7, blue roan mare: my father's favourite horse. Another horse named for a bird, I now realize. Perhaps it is apt in both cases, for Falcon is as swift a horse as you will ever find despite her age, and I imagine your Kestrel is no slouch, either. Her grand-dam, Thousand Falcons, was the horse I learned to ride upon (much to the consternation of my mother, who wished my father would have started me with a pony, but Falcon was as much his family as my mother or myself, and she never threw me).

◆ Silencer, 8, black gelding. Named so because his snorts and whinnies are so loud they interrupt conversation and frighten all birds within a quarter-mile. Despite his volume, he is friendly to all but stallions and will eat as many apples as he can wheedle from you.

◆ Grimtaash, 5, dappled grey stallion: my personal mount. Named for an old Alderaanian legend, which is too long to relate here, but our library has an illustrated copy commissioned by my grandfather. Grimtaash is himself high-spirited (perhaps a bit showy, even) and eager to race at every opportunity. The bane of Silencer's existence.

◆ A handful more mares (including one who will foal soon), geldings, and one visiting blue roan stud whose advances Falcon III continues to spurn. If I continue extolling the virtues of Alderaan's horseflesh, I fear this account of our stables shall become twice the length of my proposal, and I shall suffer the same fate as that poor stallion. But, as you can see, I am happy to discuss horses at great length—and there is plenty of room for Kestrel should Lord Kenobi be willing to part with her.

If you are not amenable to this solution, I will inquire about as to families in need of a governess, and I hope you will still consider me your friend, for above all else, I should hate to lose your friendship. You will always be welcome in Alderaan, whether it is as a guest of the family or as my wife—though I confess I selfishly hope for the latter.

Hopefully—
Indeed, hopefully yours —

Benjamin Solo

Chapter Text

Stewjon, April 24th

Dear Ben,

I confess I was most surprised by your proposal, given how our correspondence began, but I have given it much thought

Rey pauses with her pen over the blotter so as not to leave drops of ink on the page. It is true she has given much thought to Ben’s unexpected proposal, but she knew from the moment she read his sweet, awkward, generous words that she would accept. He was correct: it was a fine solution to both their predicaments. She could, of course, have accepted his other offer and gone to Alderaan as a guest—and if she were technically the duchess’s guest and not Ben’s, she imagined it would not cause much gossip—but what then? Surely she would outstay her welcome in a month at most, and then she would once more be seeking work as a governess or throwing herself on the mercy of Lord Kenobi’s distant cousin, who would undoubtedly wish to see her married off as soon as possible.

Besides, she suspects it would be dreadfully awkward to be a guest at Aldera Hall after turning down Ben’s offer of marriage. Maintaining a friendship through correspondence would be one thing; unfortunately, Ben was also correct that any prospective employers would disapprove of their governess exchanging letters with a man who was not a relation. And finally, given the choice to ride those fine horses upon occasion as a guest or to be mistress of the Alderaan stables … well, that was no choice at all.

Yet all those practical considerations, the logical arguments, the philosophical rationale, were a mere whisper compared to how the phrases indeed, I have grown quite fond of her and I would be honoured if you would have me for a husband echoed in her mind every hour of every day.

Her chief hesitation in accepting Benjamin Solo’s hand in marriage, for the few seconds of deliberation her heart affords her head, stems from her comprehending that she is almost certainly in love with him. And even if she is not quite yet in love, she expects she will fall headfirst into that undignified state the moment she glimpses a smile upon that serious, handsome face.

She has pictured it often enough, looking at the miniature of him she keeps on her bedside table. If merely receiving one of her letters can make him smile, surely she could draw forth the same reaction in person, could she not? Furthermore, she has given great consideration to the potential details of his smile; namely, whether the corners of his eyes will crinkle (she imagines they will) and if his full lips will pull up more on one side than the other (assuredly, but which side will it be?).

In sum, to accept Ben’s proposal of marriage is to risk her heart, for the phrases quite fond and a solution to both our predicaments do not mean Benjamin Solo is in love with her. It is entirely possible he regards her as a dear friend (above all else, I should hate to lose your friendship), and sees the benefit of having a wife to manage household affairs—and to give him heirs, though he had not outright mentioned that matter in so many words. (At the thought of creating those heirs, Rey presses her thighs together tightly, for her imaginative mind has now far outpaced her physical innocence in such matters.)

Yes, Ben might not love her, but he certainly wants her (the line I find myself envious of the candlelight which has the good fortune to caress your flushed cheeks and parted lips springs to mind). Is the combination of friendship (the truest friend I have ever had) and attraction (I imagine you beneath me) likely to grow into romantic love? Is there a difference in the first place? She has no experience to draw upon for wisdom, but—for Ben, with Ben, because Ben signed his latest letter hopefully yours—she, too, is willing to hope.

Rey dips her pen again in the inkwell and continues, though a girlish, hopeful, potentially foolish—and yet utterly irrepressible—smile appears on her lips as she writes.

I have given it much thought and I accept your offer of marriage. I am counting on your declaration that you are motivated by neither desperation nor pity, for I should not like to be proposed to for either reason, but as far as I know you have always been honest with me—indeed, honest to the point of rudeness and impropriety, though I have long since forgiven the former and find that I quite enjoy the latter.

Is it excessively forward to tell Ben that she looks forward to exploring various improprieties with him? Likely so. She should not like to appear desperate or give him leave to anticipate their wedding night before the banns are even read. Instead, with colour rising in her cheeks, she continues:

Will discussing such matters still be improper if I am your wife, do you think? Or, I suppose I should say, “when I am your wife,” assuming that you have not changed your mind by the time you receive this letter. I do agree with you that conducting a proposal by letter is not the ideal format, especially when the post between Alderaan and Stewjon takes nearly a fortnight.

In point of fact, due to that frustrating delay, I shall take the liberty of proposing (no play on words intended, though you may deem it witty if you wish) the handling of some practical considerations, that we might sort through the logistical matters before another month is past.

Lord Kenobi was overjoyed (and blessedly not too smug, at least outwardly so) to hear that you have proposed and I have accepted. He wishes you to know that I have a dowry of five thousand pounds and that he gives us his “whole-hearted blessing and deepest wishes for a long and happy life together.” Oh! and Kestrel, too, is to be part of my dowry, or perhaps my trousseau—can a horse be categorised among napkins and bedsheets?

I confess I was not certain when and where a wedding might take place, since I imagine neither of us wish to quit our homes while our relatives are unwell, but my great-uncle has what he believes to be a most excellent solution. He is insisting that he accompany me to Alderaan despite his poor health, that he might see me married and visit his old friends one last time. The enclosed letter addressed to your mother is one I have transcribed on his behalf.

If this plan is agreeable to you and your family, we could have the banns read in both our parishes and arrange for travel as soon as possible, before Lord Kenobi’s health declines any further. In that event, we would arrive in Alderaan at the end of May. I do not require any grand to-do or lavish celebrations, &c., but I know Her Grace may have something particular in mind for the wedding of her only child, so I shall defer to her wishes (especially as I recall her as a woman of good sense and taste), so long as they are not bothersome to the groom!

I confess it feels quite odd to go from resisting attempts at matchmaking, to planning a life as a governess, to scheduling a wedding. All that I have written above seems practical and straightforward, or so I hope, but in truth my mind is awhirl.

Truly, the oddest part is not thinking of a future as a wife and mother, for her former objections had been founded on lack of desire to be saddled with a husband (who would no doubt be onerous and overbearing), not distaste for running a household nor raising children. But it is a different matter to comprehend that she is now to be Benjamin Solo’s wife and the mother of his children, not to mention the future Duchess of Alderaan.

Rey remembers Her Grace Leia Organa Solo as a poised, regal woman: a force of nature with impeccable manners, intricate braids, and a warm smile. She is unsure if she can manage to live up to the example set by her future mother-in-law, but surely Ben knows that she is more spirited than graceful (in temperament as gentle as your hawks). And surely the duchess approves of Rey merely by the recommendation of Lord Kenobi, or she would not have encouraged her son to write in the first place!

I hope you and Their Graces are as well as can be, and most especially I hope you are not fretting overmuch about their health, my reply, or your future responsibilities. If you are unduly fretting, I beg you might cease, for I shall need my future husband to have occasionally glimpsed the sun outside in addition to the inside of his study, and slept more than occasionally in the weeks preceding our wedding, that he might be in good health and of sound mind to take his vows.

The flush Rey can feel upon her cheeks grows warmer. Ben’s declaration that he had grown used to spilling all his thoughts upon the page rather applies to her as well—much as she endeavours to be witty in her replies and sparing with her compliments, lest he think her an overeager schoolgirl mooning over him like the kitchen lads who make eyes at the dairymaids.

Quite understandably due to the length of your letter, you did not have the opportunity, I noted, to petition me for a more familiar address. So, I shall grant it here (you may think of it as an early wedding present): kindly address me as Rey in private or among family (at your discretion, for I do not wish your parents to think us overfamiliar), and Miss Kenobi in public, for I am a most proper young lady. It is possible, that once I am a married woman, propriety in private with my husband will be quite absent, should he enjoy such a custom—but I suppose only when the time comes, shall I truly discover just how improper I can be.

For now, I am,

Rey Kenobi

—

Alderaan, May 6th

Dearest Rey,

How did you know I was fretting overmuch? In truth, I did not expect my wife to begin hounding me before the banns had even been read—but then, neither did I expect how little I would object. So, I thank you for the reminder that I should step away from the ledgers and invoices while the sun still shines; moreover, I will endeavour to sleep in my own bed rather than upon the chaise in my study, for I imagine that the latter was not what you meant when you delivered your chastisement.

For the last three months, Ben has carried a letter from Miss Kenobi—Rey—in his waistcoat pocket, the one in which she called him quite charming and declared that his parents and the people of Alderaan were fortunate to have him as heir to the estate. In retrospect, it was rather sentimental behaviour, especially if one considered how often he brushed his fingers over the place where her letter was secretly tucked away; however, carrying the letter with him at all times had begun as a simple matter of practicality, that he might easily unfold the creased paper to reread her words at any time. He did so at least once a day, focussing alternately on her reassurances about his capabilities (usually while in his study), and on the lines I did not know humans could perform the act in so many more ways and I must forthrightly admit to equal—or at least equivalent—improper imaginings (usually while in his bedchamber, and once or twice in his study with the door locked so as not to risk anyone entering when he took himself in hand).

The creases of that letter are currently being pressed out (by placing it under the first five volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica) and will be added to the wooden box containing the rest of Rey’s letters, organised by date. Naturally, her most recent letter—in which she calls him Ben, willingly accepts his proposal, remarks that she enjoys his occasional improprieties, grants him permission to address her as Rey in private, and furthermore refers to him as my future husband and to herself as your wife—has gained the place of honour in his waistcoat pocket.

He likes being Ben, though he is unaccustomed to it. Ben is a name that is only for him and Rey. Ben is the man who fell in love with a young lady with a razor-sharp wit and lovely eyes and generous spirit, a man he can be regardless of title or station. To the world he is Mr. Solo, a future duke; to his mother he is Benjamin, or, occasionally, Benji; his father still refers to him as kid, notwithstanding that he is a full-grown man nearing his third decade of life. And on the subject of his parents—

My mother is perhaps a good deal more outwardly smug than Lord Kenobi, but I suppose I cannot fault her for it when her idea that I should write to you turned out to be such an excellent one. (I beg of you, do not tell her I said that, or she shall become insufferably smug). But, most of all, she is overjoyed threefold—nay, I think fourfold—that you have accepted my suit, for it means that, firstly, her son is soon to be happily married; secondly, it was thanks to her idea; thirdly; such an excellent lady is to join the family; and fourthly, though she is well aware that such things will only occur in due time, that she may have grandchildren soon.

Ben hesitates over including the last, but he would otherwise have to invent some other point to merit the use of fourfold, and it is best that Rey be prepared for his mother to talk of grandchildren. He hopes she is not averse to such a thing; though he would not mind having her all to himself for a while, he does, for his part, wish for children—preferably more than one, that they might not grow up lonely for lack of siblings, as he (and it seems, Rey) both had.

There is the necessity of an heir, of course, but he also hopes he and Rey can raise their children in such a way as to emulate the finest aspects of his own childhood (such as his father teaching him to ride at a young age; he is pleased with the knowledge that Rey will also wish to be involved in their children’s riding lessons), but not the disagreeable ones (for example, that his parents were too occupied by their own lives, to write to him more than once a term throughout his long years at Eton and then Oxford).

Although Rey is possessed of an independent nature and bluestocking sensibilities, she has mentioned how she enjoys the company of children and always longed for siblings, so his hopes on that score are not unfounded. Still, he tries not to be overhasty by thinking on actually getting her with child; he has already, repeatedly indulged in day-dreams of undressing her (or perhaps, bold creature that she is, she will wish to make a show of undressing herself in front of him?), making her fully and completely his wife on their wedding night, exploring with her all the ways in which they can perform the act, discovering what sweet noises she shall make….

Yes. Well. In any case, Ben has quite enough fantasies to make colour rise in his cheeks and his cock throb in his breeches in the midst of writing this letter. He had better get on with it so as not to delay posting his reply, and perhaps after he has given the letter to a footman, he can take himself in hand, though it has not even been a full day since he last did so. He adjusts himself and continues:

Both Their Graces and I are well (my father is newly motivated to eschew vigorous sport and rich foods, that he might be in good health at our wedding), and I—as I alluded to above—slept soundly in my own bed for nearly nine hours last night.

Ben does not mention what activity he partook in just prior to that sound sleep in his own bed, but he likes to imagine that Rey may speculate on the matter without prompting. On the other hand, he hopes that her newly awakened interest in bedsport is not foremost among the reasons she accepted his suit. In point of fact, his prior concerns that Rey might rebuff his proposal have been transmuted; he is now vexed by the thought that she accepted only because a future duchess is assured of a far more comfortable future than that of a governess, or because of his fine stables—or because he had inadvertently sparked her curiosity about sexual matters.

There was nothing wrong with her accepting for those reasons, of course—when he had written his clumsy proposal, he had been counting on the practical concerns being sufficient to convince her—but it would be dreadfully awkward if Rey were only moderately fond of him, for it will surely be obvious to everybody around them that Ben is moments away from throwing himself at her feet and professing his undying love. It will be a miracle if he can keep his parents from mentioning the words love match—indeed, that is likely too much to hope for, which is a quandary he shall have to untangle at a later date.

I discussed the wedding arrangements with my parents this morning—in truth, your initiative in commencing with the planning is greatly appreciated by all parties, and we are in agreement with all your suggestions. I understand my mother will be writing to ask you about a few details, but she has assured me that she is not planning anything “excessive.”

We shall have the banns read in Alderaan the next three Sundays, and perhaps we can set Friday, June 3rd as the wedding day, if you still think you shall arrive by the end of May? It is likely (though not guaranteed) to be reasonably fine weather in Alderaan by then, and we might have the wedding breakfast out-doors.

I am having my lawyer draw up the settlement papers for yourself and Lord Kenobi to review. I hope pin-money of four hundred pounds per annum is satisfactory? And I shall see to it that Kestrel has a fine corner stall prepared for her; I have explained to the other horses that they are soon to have a new equine friend and human mistress, but I fear they shall not comprehend the magnitude of these events, until your arrival in person.

He is also arranging for a small mews to be built and candidates for a falconer to be interviewed. Though it is unlikely that the structure will be fully complete by the time Rey arrives, he means to make it something of a wedding present, to demonstrate that her interests are as important as his. And if she is amenable to instructing him in falconry, then it shall be yet another activity they can enjoy together.

For myself, I likewise can scarce comprehend that I am to have such an accomplished, beautiful, keen-witted wife. I count myself lucky indeed and know not what I have done to deserve this good fortune.

Moreover, like yours, my mind is awhirl, but fortunately we both have plenty of preparations to keep us occupied. I am hoping to be done with these blasted ledgers before your arrival, that we might enjoy a honeymoon without so many responsibilities to distract us from other important matters. My mother is insistent that she and my father shall repair to London for the month following the wedding, that she might be present for the rest of the Season and thereby grant us a measure of privacy. Thereafter, we can join them in Town if you wish, or eschew the Season all-together with the excuse of being recently married.

I must admit that I am torn between joy, that you have given me leave to call you Rey, especially when you are soon to have a new surname, and consternation, that I shall have to remember to address you as Miss Kenobi when others are present for some time yet. I do not think my parents should object, for their part, but I do not wish to give them—or your great-uncle—any reason to suspect us of having been over-familiar in our correspondence. It is a dilemma, especially as you have such a lovely name, that I think I shall enjoy saying it often.

Your soon-to-be-husband,
Benjamin Solo,

Or simply,
Your Ben

P.S. In answer to your question, I do not know if it is improper for husbands and wives to overtly discuss bedsport; I suppose it might depend on whom you ask, except the very asking of such a thing would certainly be improper. In any case, I do not think propriety need have any say in what we do in private, much as the words in our correspondence are not anyone else’s concern.

And since you have remarked how you so enjoy when I transgress, I should hate to miss such a clear cue: I do look forward to discovering how improper you can be when freed from the constraints Society has deemed necessary—and likewise freed from any garments that constrain you and conceal your beauty from your husband’s admiring eyes.

Ben does not wish to make Rey think his interest is only a matter of lust—but surely she can discern that, if so, he would not have proposed to her when he has only seen a small portrait of her and never met face to face. Moreover, he devoutly hopes he will not disappoint on their wedding night, after all the expectations he has inadvertently built up around bedsport. He has some experience—enough, he hopes, to keep from embarrassing himself and to feel reasonably confident he can make his wife reach her peak at least once.

His father had impressed upon him at a young age—too young, in his opinion—that even if he were to withdraw before spilling his seed, such a method was not infallible. And when he had gone off to Oxford at eighteen, his mother had vowed to disembowel him with a hatpin should he get a young woman of any social class with child out of wedlock. If he were lucky, she would not act so rashly, but instead hold a pistol to his head while he drew up a marriage settlement with an exceedingly generous jointure, that the woman and child would have their future comfort assured in the event of his untimely death, at which point she might then freely threaten to disembowel him at any later date. Duchess Leia Organa Solo took a militant as well as philosophical approach to the vindication aspect of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, which she had read aloud to a young Benjamin during his sixth year.

In any case, though Ben is certainly not without interest in performing the act, as Rey had referred to it, his experience is perhaps not so great as she might suppose; his encounters involving hands and mouths, while pleasant enough, had not inspired him to venture into more risky territory. But between his scandalous words in their letters and the mere fact that he is a man of nine-and-twenty, he fears that Rey no doubt expects him to be a connoisseur of carnal pleasure.

Then again, so long as he does not spill like a green lad at the first glimpse of her naked body, Rey’s curious nature will gladly admit an additional layer of experimentation on both their parts. Or so he tells himself, to keep from fretting overmuch, for that is precisely the habit she warned him to avoid.

In order to prove to himself his restraint, he rereads the letter to Rey without touching himself as he does so, deems it satisfactory, and rings for Mitaka to post it. Normally he would take the opportunity to stretch his legs and go find a footman himself, but his tailcoat will not conceal his erection, so remaining seated is his best option at present.

When Mitaka has departed with strict instructions to post the letter without delay, Ben rises from his seat, locks the door, and repairs to the chaise with Rey’s portrait in hand. Only then does he unbutton his breeches and stroke himself to completion while imagining the eager hazel eyes and breathlessly parted pink lips of his wife when he takes her for the first time.

—

Stewjon, May 17th

Dearest Ben,

It is quite strange to write a letter and know that there is no time for a reply to arrive before we depart for Alderaan, so I suppose anything you have to say in response to this must be said in person! I may write you a longer letter from the road in order to more thoroughly reply to your divers points, for I do not expect we shall be able to truly talk privately until after the wedding.

For now I must be brief, for we plan to set out to-morrow (allowing additional time to travel slowly for my great-uncle’s sake) and there is much to do. I think our housekeeper Mrs. M——, who appointed herself in charge of my trousseau, means for Alderaan to be using table linens made in Stewjon well into the next century. It is a good thing I was obliged to remain in-doors for much of the winter and had ample opportunity to sew. I suppose, in retrospect, Lord Kenobi did seem more than usually interested in my needlework; perhaps he was tacitly encouraging me to finish some pieces that had sat neglected, that I might have a respectable assortment.

Look at me spilling my thoughts upon the page as you have rendered me wont to do, when I know you must have no interest in table linens and embroidery! Shall we say it is an opportunity for you to practise a gentlemanly response despite your lack of interest, and in return I shall endeavour not to prattle on about such things in the future?

Speaking of respectable amounts and gentlemanly behaviour—my goodness, Mr. Solo, I should think that four hundred pounds per annum is more than sufficient! I have no idea what I might spend such a sum on unless you mean for me to be attired in Venetian silk at all times, which I would think rather excessive, even for a future duchess. That is to say, your generosity with regards to the settlement is noted and appreciated, including the income set aside so any children beyond a firstborn shall not find themselves in the predicament I was in—though I maintain that I would have made a fine governess.

I must dash, for Mrs. M—— is calling for me to try on my wedding dress once more before it is packed away. You may expect us at Aldera Hall on the 31st of May, if all goes well, and I shall of course write you in the case of any delays.

Though I am at sixes and sevens with packing, &c., I remain,

Rey Kenobi

—

Yorkshire, May 19th

To one who enjoys the company of horses and hounds, but may yet become a husband:

Now we are on our way south and I do not know if this letter will arrive before us; in a race I should normally bet against the mail carriage, but our pace is slow to minimise my great-uncle’s discomfort—though he complains not a jot of the aching bones and stiff joints I would surely possess if I were not able to ride Kestrel often throughout the day. Since you have attributed such advanced cognition to your steeds, I am now imagining that Kestrel thinks this a grand adventure, though she no doubt pities the carriage horses with their heavy tack and ungainly burden.

As I mentioned in my previous letter, I wished to respond to yours at greater length, and with greater privacy than we would be afforded when speaking aloud in the company of others. I was very glad to read that your father is well, and your mother wrote me the loveliest note to welcome me to the family and ask about cake flavours (I selected orange sponge, unless you would prefer lemon).

I was also pleased to learn that you are endeavouring to sleep in your own bed. You mentioned said bed a curious number of times, and I cannot help but wonder if that was a deliberate tease. I suppose I shall have to wait and see, just as with your sense of humour (though my hypothesis on that score is a positive one). It seems we shall have much to discover together, so it is all the better that we are of one mind about having the freedom to say and do as we wish when in private.

If we join Their Graces in Town following our honeymoon, would we remain there for the rest of the Season, or are you supposing we might attend a few events, conduct any business you must see to, and then repair to Alderaan once more ? In truth I do not know what I would prefer—I should like to see London at some point, of course, but by your account it has not nearly so much to recommend it as the fields and forests of Alderaan, which I am eager to explore!

That said, I shall be glad to accompany you if you wish (or are obliged) to spend the rest of the summer in Town. Perhaps I shall consult with your mother once we arrive in Alderaan, for I should not wish to embarrass my new family if my gowns or manners are not fine enough.

We must be up again early to-morrow to continue our journey, and I can see my maid stifling her yawns, so I suppose I ought to finish this letter and undress for bed, that she might depart for her own night’s rest. If only I had a kind and helpful husband to assist me instead! Though, in that case, it is possible we would become quite preoccupied and get very little rest indeed.

If you are my Ben, then I must be,
Now and most especially after Friday next,
Yours,

Rey

Chapter Text

Alderaan, May 27th

Dearest Rey,

I have every interest in table linens if they are embroidered by your hand. I hope that is a sufficiently gentlemanly response, for it is also the truth. I suspect I should not even tire of discussing grain prices if I were listening to your opinions on them—however, I shall stop short of inviting you to ramble on about any subject lest you call my bluff and make me regret it on purpose in the future.

It is indeed odd to write knowing that we shall meet in person before a reply (or indeed, even this very letter) can be read, but I should miss writing to you far too much were I simply to cease for an entire fortnight. Thus, I aim to give you this letter in person—though if our families suppose we are planning a secret assignation by the passing of notes, we would be obliged to wed, which would of course be a great shame, scandal, &c. Nonetheless, it is a risk I am willing to run.

May 28th

I am nearly finished with reconciling these dreadful old ledgers, so believe me when I say that you may spend your pin-money on whatever pleases you. However, while I think you should look very fine in a gown (or nightgown) of Venetian silk, I agree that it would be excessive for you to be so attired at all times. After all, it would be ridiculous for you to be dressed in the bath, or at certain other times when wearing nothing at all might prove advantageous.

May 30th

The letter you sent from the road has just arrived—and a good thing, too, for merely seeing your hand-writing calmed my anxious thoughts of to-morrow.

First, I must entreat you not to worry that you shall embarrass yourself or our family by lacking Town polish. By all means, consult with my mother, for she shall be delighted to offer many well-informed opinions on gowns and who is most important to be introduced to and so forth, but if your fear is that you are not fine enough, I am here to say that is nonsense. I am firmly convinced that you are the finest person I know, and to-morrow I shall be able to say that you are the finest person I have ever met. And you, dearest, will be a Solo, the great-niece of an earl, the daughter-in-law of a duchess, and the most beautiful woman in London whenever you deign to grace it with your presence; you may set the fashions, not merely abide by them.

I hope that sets your mind at ease a little. I confess I have no idea whether I will have business in Town, or indeed how long I would prefer to spend there, for my mind is full of nothing but to-morrow when you shall arrive, and Friday when we shall be wed, and the month after when we shall finally have both freedom and privacy to explore everything from the fields and forests of Alderaan to whichever aspects of a certain pamphlet have intrigued you the most, for I admit I have been most curious on that score.

If I teased you by mentioning my bed more than once, it was a happy coincidence—but in the future you may assume it is on purpose and respond accordingly. Your comments about undressing for bed, however, were a transparently deliberate tease, though no less effective for the obviousness of the ploy. I do hope to be a kind and helpful husband, especially when it comes to assisting my wife out of her clothing.

Today, and to-morrow, and the day after that, forevermore, I shall be,
Yours,

Ben

—

On the final day of May, Ben rises especially early and frets over his clothing for nearly three-quarters of an hour, driving poor Mitaka to distraction.

“Is the black velvet waistcoat too formal to wear during the day, do you think?”

“I could not say, sir,” Mitaka replies wearily. Which means yes.

“Perhaps the blue silk, then? Ought I not to wear all black?” Rey had teased him about the limited hues of his wardrobe, once upon a time. Would she recognize that a deviation from his normal attire might mark a special occasion?

“I rather think Miss Kenobi will be more interested in your person than your vest,” is Mitaka’s reply.

His man is, Ben admits, most likely correct on that score; it is more that he wishes to look his best for Rey’s arrival. He settles on the blue silk with a dark grey tailcoat and pantaloons—and boots, for he never wears fussy dress pumps if he can help it. Mitaka knots his cravat in a mail coach knot as Ben inspects his hair in the mirror. Rey had called it admirably thick and wavy, which is a blessing as it covers his overlarge ears.

Judging by the distance to the inns where the Kenobis are most likely to have stayed the previous night, it is unlikely that they will arrive before two o’clock at the earliest, but if he had gone out riding he would have spent the entire time fretting that he would miss their arrival. Instead, he eats breakfast with his parents, paces in the garden, and attempts to read a book despite comprehending nary a word.

By mid-afternoon, he is jiggling his knee impatiently during tea-time until his mother delivers a quelling glance his way. To occupy his hands, he helps himself to a ginger biscuit, careful not to get crumbs on his waistcoat.

When a footman enters with a letter, Ben springs to his feet, fearing that it is Rey writing of a delay. As it happens, it is only a note to the family from Uncle Bacca (who is in truth not Ben’s uncle by blood but rather his godfather, by virtue of being his father’s dearest friend and former comrade-in-arms), writing to Their Graces that he shall be in attendance at the wedding. That brings the guest list up to eight, not including himself and Rey, which is more than Ben expected for a quiet country wedding—but as long as the assorted guests do not overstay their welcome, he does not object, for he can think of no better occasion to celebrate.

His Grace the Duke of Alderaan takes noisy gulp of tea that makes his wife wince. “It’ll be a reunion of the old crowd, eh? Albeit with a few more grey hairs this time around.”

The duchess pats her own silver-streaked braids and eyes her husband’s greying locks. “Quite a few more grey hairs, I should say.” With a glance at Ben, she adds, “No thanks to fretting over the both of you.”

Just as Ben opens his mouth to reply, he hears the sound of carriage wheels out front. Springing to his feet once more, he strides towards the front door, nearly running over the poor footman coming to inform him of the Kenobis’ imminent arrival. His parents follow behind at a more sedate pace.

He runs down the steps to find a coach-and-four pulling up before Aldera Hall, followed by a glossy chestnut mare who must be Kestrel. Ben waves aside the footman who steps forward and hastens to the carriage himself. He is just in time, for the door opens to reveal a young lady in a peach-coloured gown, with hair a few shades darker than Kestrel’s coat and wide green-and-amber eyes even more beautiful than in her portrait. Her lips part as her gaze meets his, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Rey. She is here. She is real. In a matter of days she will be his wife. But for now—

“Miss Kenobi.” Ben offers his hand to help her step out of the carriage, his heart pounding. “Welcome to Alderaan.”

—

Rey places her gloved hand in Ben’s own, struck by how large and warm it is even through the fabric of their gloves. She steps out of the carriage, glad to be free of it after nearly two weeks on the road, and finds that her betrothed is even taller than she imagined; though she is not a short woman, she must tilt her head back to properly take in his features.

Remembering herself, she curtsies—it is, after all, their first meeting, even if they have glossed over a formal introduction after months of correspondence. One more way in which they have skirted propriety and forged their own path.

“Mr. Solo,” she greets him, though her mind echoes Ben. He is so very—well, she cannot get her thoughts all in order, this close to him. Uncommonly handsome, certainly, but it is more that there is so much of him; he is so very present and real and alive beyond words on a page, and hearing a mere handful of words in his deep voice makes her heart skip a beat.

“I am most grateful for your kind welcome,” she adds, looking up (and up) in a manner that is certainly not demure but, alas, utterly unavoidable, for she cannot seem to tear her gaze away from his countenance. The miniaturist had captured his proud nose, full lips, and waves of dark hair, but failed to convey the exact golden honey tones of his warm brown eyes or the stubborn jut of his angular jaw.

“I am most glad you are here and arrived safely,” Ben replies, making a small bow of greeting. Her staring is made more permissible, she hopes, by the fact that he has not taken his eyes from her either.

Eventually—or perhaps after mere moments, she cannot be sure—his parents step forward and Ben lets go of her hand (reluctantly so, or is that only her imagination at work?).

“Your Graces.” Rey bobs a brief curtsey to the duke and duchess of Alderaan.

“Now, now, I thought we had agreed that we are to be Leia and Rey.” The duchess takes both Rey’s hands in hers and smiles warmly. Though Leia's hair is streaked with silver and Rey is much taller than at their last meeting, the duchess is just as vibrant and regal as Rey remembers. She cannot help smiling at Leia in turn.

The duke favours her with a charming grin. She can well imagine the handsome captain that he must have been three decades ago. Indeed, his weathered face and silver hair do not detract from his current looks. If Ben’s smile is anything like his father’s, Rey fears she may abandon her practical and determined nature and fall into a swoon.

“Good to see you again, kid.” The duchess gives her husband a pointed look. “Ah, Miss Kenobi.”

“Rey will do very well, Your Grace.”

His Grace exhales noisily. “Oh, none of this Your Grace tosh. Call me Han, for heaven’s sake.” He winks at her. “My son is already counting down the hours until you are officially family.”

Before Rey can respond to that, the duke’s attention shifts as Uncle Obi joins them, assisted by his valet Dex and leaning heavily on his wooden staff, for he eschews a traditional cane. Ben hovers behind his namesake; Rey receives the impression that he is prepared to swoop in and catch the old man should Obi stumble, despite Dex’s presence.

The duke and duchess greet Obi in the comfortable manner of old friends, clearly delighted to be reunited after a long separation and at the same time concealing their dismay at his fragile state.

“You must wish to rest after your long journey,” Leia says smoothly, leading their party slowly toward the sweeping staircase into the house. Obi takes the stairs one at a time with Dex’s assistance, waving off the duchess’s offer to have a footman fetch a chair.

“I can manage, if you are willing to put up with my slow pace.” He pauses for breath, looking up at the stately façade of Aldera Hall, then aiming a sly glance at Rey. “Besides, it gives me more opportunity to reminisce, and my great-niece a chance to take in her new home.”

Taking her eyes off Ben at last, Rey surveys Aldera Hall itself. The stone manor house—not quite big enough to be termed a castle, she thinks—is uncommonly beautiful, boasting Ionic columns and large bay windows framing the front door. East and west wings stretch out from the taller central building, with hexagonal turrets neatly capping each end. The grounds she has seen so far are just as lovely: oak and aspen trees lining the drive, a wisteria-laden path along one side of the house that presumably leads to a larger garden, and another path bordered by hedges and flowerbeds that must go to the stables, for the coachman and a groom in Alderaan livery are taking the carriage and Kestrel that way.

Evidently, Ben takes note of her gaze straying in that direction. “Kestrel shall be well cared for,” he assures her. “We can visit her after supper, if you like, to be sure she is settling in well?”

“I should like that,” Rey replies. “Though I am certain your stable hands will take fine care of her,” she adds hastily. “As I know you are so fond of your own horses.”

Ben smiles at last, the corners of his full lips pulling up and crinkles appearing around his eyes. She grins back at him—she cannot help it. His smile is just as devastating as she had feared. Nay, more so. He has dimples, and slightly crooked teeth that give him a boyish charm.

Her heart thumps once, twice, tumbles out of her chest, and lands right at his feet.

Well then. There she goes. Love at first smile is, she hopes, not quite as cliché as love at first sight.

Seemingly oblivious to the fact that Rey has conceded the battle not to be desperately in love with him, Ben continues on, “Indeed. I look forward to introducing you to our horses as well. And to-morrow I shall show you where we are thinking to build a mews—and you may meet the hounds, too, if you like.”

“And here I thought our time would be taken up with wedding preparations,” Rey manages, minding where she places her feet on the stairs so she does not fall literally as well as metaphorically. She can hardly believe this is to be her home, that Ben is to be her husband.

“My mother seems to have things well in hand, although I am sure there will be vital decisions regarding—” Ben’s face screws up in thought “—napkins, or the cake stand, or some such detail.”

“I am not certain I have strong opinions on such matters, but I shall produce a preference upon request, if need be.”

When they step inside, a maid comes to show Rey and Uncle Obi to guest chambers in the west side of the house—opposite the family wing, Rey cannot help but note, as the duchess gives a brief description of Aldera Hall’s layout. There is to be no sneaking down a hallway to Ben’s bedchamber—not that she would truly do such a thing, though she has perhaps daydreamed of it once or twice. Ben departs with a bow and the assurance that he looks forward to seeing her at supper, but not before presenting her with a letter he wrote while she was traveling.

“I could hardly cease writing to you simply because we were to meet at last,” he explains. “And then I received your letter from the road and saw we were of one mind on that also, so—well. Yes. I shall leave you to settle in.”

Rey sees her great-uncle settled in his room before repairing to her own. The long journey has exhausted him; it is for the best that the wedding is not for three days yet, that Uncle Obi might have time to rest properly. Indeed, though she knows he wishes to spend time with his old friends, he professes himself too fatigued for a formal supper. The maid (Tallie Lintra, Rey learns, fixing it in her mind—for she knows she must memorise the names of all the staff as swiftly as possible and endear herself to them) promises to bring Lord Kenobi a tray.

“Are you certain you do not wish for me to keep you company over supper?” Rey frets.

Obi pats her hand. “Nonsense. I saw the way you and young Benjamin looked at each other. There is a bond between you already—though whether it is from your extended correspondence or his handsome countanence, I cannot say.” Rey’s own face colours at her great-uncle’s teasing.

“Go enjoy supper with your betrothed,” her great-uncle insists. “Like as not I shall fall asleep immediately after eating and be dull company indeed.”

Rey acquieses at last, promising to check on Obi after supper, and follows Tallie into her own guest chamber, where she finds her own maid, Bryony, already at work unpacking her gowns. She supposes all her belongings will have to be moved again in a few days, when she presumably relocates to a chamber adjoining Ben’s.

Taking a seat at the vanity, she unfolds Ben’s letter and lets out a most unladylike snort at his jest about them being obliged to wed. It is now quite clear that her betrothed does, in point of fact, have a sense of humour, albeit an exceedingly dry one. She blushes over the phrases wearing nothing at all and assisting my wife out of her clothing, though she has difficulty believing his excessive compliments to be wholly sincere. Perhaps he supposes a good husband ought to flatter his wife, but she would rather prefer they maintain the forthright honesty from their earlier correspondence.

Nevertheless, she looks forward to re-reading her fiancé’s words and penning him a reply to-night. For now she must change out of her traveling clothes and into the gown Bryony has selected for her to wear to supper—bronze taffeta, part of the new wardrobe the rest of the Kenobi household had insisted on providing alongside her trousseau.

Her maid will be returning to Stewjon following the wedding, as the whole of her family resides in that area, but her enthusiasm for the novel experience of a visit to Alderaan makes her chatty as she helps Rey dress.

“Young Mr. Solo seems a fine lad an’ no mistake, miss. Big as an ox and e’en more ’andsome than ’is portrait!”

Here Rey begins to blush, but Bryony carries on: “An’ the look in ’is eyes when ’e first saw ye—I near about swooned meself! I never seen a nobleman so in love!”

“Oh! but we have said nothing of love,” Rey protests, colouring mightily. “Friendship and admiration, yes, and certainly the practical advantages of a union between us, but not love.”

Bryony snorts, ushering her mistress into a chair to re-pin her travel-tousled hair. “Then ’tis only a matter o’ time, miss. Like as not, ’e’s said nawt only ’cause ’e don’ yet ken tha’ ye love ’im.”

To this Rey can say nothing, for she has no defence to present to one who knows she kept Ben’s miniature on her bedside table and who has seen her smiling foolishly over his letters.

“Men are mighty foolish creatures,” Bryony adds sagely. “But if ’e’s bright enough t’ see what a fine lass ye are, I reckon there’s ’ope for ’im yet.”

—

Ben tries not gape all over again when Rey joins the Solos outside the family dining-room, respondent in an elegant bronze gown that sets off the forest hues of her eyes. His mother, predictably—though quite correctly, in this case—fusses over how fine Rey looks, leaving Ben to stand there woodenly and attempt not to let his eyes linger on her décolletage.

Blessedly, his father saves Ben by offering his arm to his wife, though (to Ben’s chagrin) he does so with an exaggerated flourish. “Come, Your Worshipfulness. Supper will grow cold, and you can compliment Rey just as well once we are seated.”

Leia tuts at her husband, but takes his arm and proceeds into the dining-room, leaving Ben to offer an arm to Rey. “Miss Kenobi?”

His stomach flips as Rey slips her hand into the crook of his elbow and smiles up at him. “If I am already on first-name terms with both your parents, surely we can dispense with the formalities as well?”

“But you are such a proper young lady,” Ben reminds her, delighting in the sparkle in her eyes as he teases her. “It would not do for me to take any liberties before we are wed.” Yes, he would enjoy the intimacy of addressing his fiancée by her given name, but oh, it is such fun to be contrary simply to provoke her.

And Rey’s response does not disappoint. With an arch look, she replies, “I hardly think calling a young lady by her given name when permission has been granted is a liberty, but if your mind is fixed upon more liberal actions, I beg you tell me in greater detail, that I might imagine them properly.”

Before Ben can reply (which is for the best, as otherwise he might be moved to foolhardiness), Han calls out, “Did you kids get lost, or have you decided to run off to Gretna Green instead of waiting three more days?”

Color rises to Rey’s cheeks—and the tips of Ben’s ears, he is sure. “We found ourselves caught up in conversation,” he tells his father as they enter the dining-room at last.

Han snorts and opens his mouth, but closes it again at a pointed look from Leia.

Once they are all seated, the conversation turns to the menu for the wedding breakfast, as well as supper the night before the wedding, for a few additional guests will be staying overnight at Aldera Hall. Ben observes with pleasure how easily Rey converses with both his parents, gradually relaxing as Han cracks jokes and Leia nods in approval over her suggestions.

“Benjamin, would Mr. Dameron and his friend have any objection to pheasant, do you think?”

To Rey, Ben explains, “I have asked my school-friend Mr. Dameron to stand as my best man for the ceremony, and as he has a guest in town he does not wish to abandon entirely, our party has grown. I hope you do not mind a few additional persons in attendance?”

“Oh, as long as we are not entertaining dozens I do not mind in the slightest,” Rey replies. “I shall be glad to meet your friend, and his friend, and the Huxleys. Is your uncle planning to attend?”

“My uncle Mr. Bacca—who is in truth my godfather—shall be arriving on Thursday.” Ben glances to his mother with a raised brow. “Have we heard from Uncle Luke?”

“He cannot countence leaving the monastery for over a month to make the journey both ways,” the duchess replies. “But he sends his best wishes to you and Rey—and Lord Kenobi as well,” she adds, turning to Rey. “They were acquaintanted many decades ago, when we were all much younger and prone to getting up to mischief together.”

Privately, Ben thinks that getting up to mischief is an odd way to describe pulling off a wedding between the daughter of a duchess and a decorated but impoverished Navy captain, restoring the old primogeniture laws of Alderaan that did not favour male children over females, some escapade involving a flaming ship and a midden heap he has never received the full story on, an illegal duel between Lord Kenobi and the Duke of Maul, and emerging from the whole affair with the favour of both the gossips and the Crown, but what does he know? He was only born—well, just over eight months later, a most particular length of time he tries not to dwell on.

“So, as to Mr. Dameron and his friend?” his mother prompts.

“I assume Dameron likes pheasant,” Ben replies wearily, “for I have never heard him complain about it. As I am not acquainted with Mr. Storm, I cannot speculate on his preferences, but I hardly think a guest of a guest shall raise a fuss over something as trifling as pheasant.”

“Very well.” The duchess nods decisively. “And for the soup course, I was thinking something light and summery—green pea or broccoli? Do you mind broccoli, Rey?”

The corner of Rey’s mouth twitches and her eyes flick to Ben as she replies, “It has its charms.”

Ben fights a smile of his own. He is delighted to find that Rey is just as playful and witty as in her letters, though the next three days will be a sweet kind of torment if she continues to tease him as she had just before supper. If he were more fully experienced in bedsport, if they were not under his parents’ roof, and if he did not want so very much to give her a proper wedding night, he would be seriously tempted to anticipate their vows.

As they finish the final course, Rey covers a small yawn, then a larger one. “Pardon me. It has been a long day.”

“And a long journey besides, I am sure!” Leia waves away Rey’s apology. “We shall not keep you up any later if you wish to retire.”

“Oh! but the stables—“ Rey glances at Ben, regret warring with tiredness in her eyes.

“We can visit the horses first thing to-morrow,” Ben promises. “Perhaps we might even go out riding, if—“ he glances at his parents, suddenly feeling very much younger than his nine-and-twenty years.

“I can chaperone the kids,” Han volunteers. Leia opens her mouth, prompting him to add, “No racing whatsoever, I promise.”

“It is not that,” the duchess replies tartly. “Though I should hope you have not been racing. But you are not an acceptable chaperone for Miss Kenobi. Myself or a maid can accompany the children.”

Children. As if Ben is not nearly thirty years of age, and Rey—wait, how old is she? According to his mother, she had been twenty when they began their correspondence many months ago. Has she celebrated a birthday without mentioning it?

“In fact,” his mother continues, addressing Rey, “I shall send Tallie as your chaperone, for if she is to become your maid, she must be able to keep up with you reasonably well.”

Ben chuckles. “I am not sure I will be able to keep up with Miss Kenobi—though I look forward to finding out.”

“As do I,” Rey adds, a spark of challenge in her eyes.

“I’ll put five pounds on the young lady,” Han interjects, then holds up his hands when Ben scowls at him and Leia tuts at the vulgarity of casual gambling at the supper table. “Only jesting!”

“I shall be in the breakfast parlor by half eight,” Ben promises. He rises from the table when his mother declares supper adjourned, and bids Rey good-night. “I look forward to giving you a tour to-morrow with all the detailed answers you may wish for, Miss Kenobi.”

Faint colour rises in Rey’s cheeks—not for the first time this evening, but upon this occasion Ben is particularly thrilled that he can make her blush.

—

Wearing her finest riding habit, Rey enters the breakfast parlour at Aldera Hall to find both the duchess and her son tarrying over plates of crumbs, despite the fact that it is not yet half eight. Ben rises as she enters, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile although she has done nothing but walk into the room. Rey supposes that he must be greatly looking forward to showing her the stables and going for a ride—a feeling she can relate to, for she is eagerly anticipating both the tour and the chance to ride properly, instead of maintaining a sedate walk alongside a slow-moving carriage.

When the three of them have wished each other good morning, established that the others have slept well (or at least do not wish to admit to having slept poorly), and so forth, Ben asks if he may make up a plate for her.

“Only a bit of toast and an apple, thank you,” she replies.

“Is the apple for you or for Kestrel?” he inquires.

“Would you believe me if I said I have not yet made up my mind on that score?”

“In that case—” He plucks two apples from the breakfast spread and wraps them in a napkin.

“How do you take your tea, Rey?” The duchess pours a cup for her.

“Just a splash of milk, Your G—Leia.” It is oddly more difficult to be on first-name terms with a duchess in person than in correspondence, Rey is finding. The duke has such an easygoing, casual manner that she has no such trouble thinking of him as Han, but Leia’s warmth does not lessen her regal nature. Rey can easily comprehend how she earned the nickname Your Worshipfulness.

Rey spreads a generous portion of gooseberry jam on her toast and eats as quickly as she dares, not wishing to delay the duchess by forcing her to remain in the room as chaperone. The careful maneuvering required to ensure a couple is never alone together is a dreadful inconvenience to all concerned, though she supposes it is a necessity given that not all men are as honourable as Ben. If there is a small, secret part of her that wishes he were ever so slightly less honourable and had enjoyed a pleasant interlude before bed imagining what it would have been like to kiss him during the brief moments they were alone in the sitting-room the previous evening—well, surely she can be forgiven a few girlish fantasies from time to time.

“I have been meaning to ask,” Ben addresses her. “When is your birthday?”

“If you are asking whether I am yet twenty-one, the answer is yes, for I celebrated a birthday on the nineteenth of April.” Were she not yet twenty-one, her great-uncle’s explicit permission would be required during the marriage ceremony—which she understands is not uncommon for debutantes, but it is nonetheless preferable not to need another’s permission to wed.

“I was largely curious about the date, for it seemed like something a husband should know about his wife.” Ben’s brow furrows. “I am sorry to have missed the chance to mark yours.”

“The letter in which you proposed arrived only a few days after, so I considered that a present of sorts. Besides, there will be next year.”

“And every year after that,” Ben replies, his eyes fixed upon her face.

“Indeed,” Rey manages, her cheeks warm. “And is the reverse true as well? Ought a wife to know her husband’s birthday?”

“It is the first of August,” Ben informs her. “Though I do not usually make any great fuss over it.”

“I would not mind some fuss,” Leia interjects, eyes crinkling with amusement over their conversation, “for it was a great deal of work, bringing this one into the world.”

“Well, there you have it,” Ben proclaims. “For my thirtieth, we shall celebrate Her Grace’s noble efforts, and not count backwards to—”

“Oh! hush, you.” Leia waves a hand at her son and Rey stifles a laugh behind her napkin. “Now, you two were going to visit the stables and go for a morning ride, were you not?”

“I have asked Cook to prepare a picnic luncheon, in point of fact.” Ben’s warm brown eyes regard her hopefully.

“A picnic sounds delightful, Mr. Solo.”

That reply earns her another smile, with a glimpse of his dimples that causes her stomach to flip most pleasantly.

“Shall we to the stables, Miss Kenobi?” Ben rises and proffers his arm as if they are going on promenade in Hyde Park rather than a short stroll to the stable-yard. From the corner of her eye, Rey thinks she sees the duchess concealing laughter of her own.

“Very well.” She takes Ben’s arm and can’t help but smile up at him. “It seems it is time to discover if you and your mount of choice can keep up with myself and Kestrel.”

“I assure you, Grimtaash and I will relish the challenge,” Ben replies, a spark of competition in his eyes that indicates he shall not let her win out of a sense of misplaced politeness. Which is just as it should be, much as Ben himself is just as she hoped he would be. Nay, that is not entirely true—he is more. More real, his arm solid and warm under her hand. More humorous, his dry wit landing just as drolly in person as in his letters. More distracting, for instead of merely thinking of him every hour, she can hardly take her eyes off him while in his presence.

The way he consumes her attention is so inconvenient that she would be cross, excepting that the only person to truly blame is herself, for the rash act of falling in love with a distractingly handsome and kind-hearted man. Instead of being vexed by him, she finds herself at once anxious that her feelings will be written on her face for all to see, and frustrated that she is not yet permitted to know what it feels like to kiss him or to glimpse what lies beneath his fine shirts and well-fitted breeches.

Perhaps, as she had once suggested to Ben himself, galloping through the fields on her horse will lessen her frustrations—and likely all the better if she can take the lead in their race and avoid being distracted by the sight of him in the saddle.

—

“Oh! what a lovely creature.” Rey strokes Silencer’s nose as the gelding whuffs loudly with pleasure.

“He is a fine horse,” Ben agrees, trying not to become envious of the attention Silencer is receiving at Rey’s hands. She does not seem to mind that the gelding is drooling on her riding gloves as he double-checks for more apples.

With a final pat on Silencer’s nose, Rey moves to the next stall. “And this must be Falcon?”

“Indeed.” Ben strokes Falcon’s mane, then steps back to let Rey inspect the blue roan mare. Extending a flat palm with a lump of sugar she’s produced from somewhere, she surveys the mare with a professional eye.

“She seems unassuming at first, but there’s something about her that is—well, particularly spirited.” Falcon lips at Rey’s palm and accepts the lump of sugar. “I look forward to riding her, if His Grace is amenable to that.”

“He would be delighted, I am sure,” Ben replies. “Especially since he is not supposed to ride as fast or as frequently as he was wont to do, and I have unfortunately grown too tall for her.”

Rey glances at him, her eyes darting quickly from the hem of his coat to his shoulders to his face. “You are quite tall.”

Ben resists the urge to shuffle his riding boots upon the stable floorboards. “Not excessively so, I hope?”

“Oh! no, not at all.” There is the faintest hint of colour in Rey’s cheeks once again, which Ben notes with immense interest. Changing the subject, she asks, “And where is Grimtaash?”

“Over here, separate from the mares.” Ben leads the way to Grimtaash’s stall and unlatches it, for he means to take the stallion out on their ride today. “Behave,” he murmurs to his horse, who is eyeing Rey skeptically.

“Another fine creature,” Rey declares. “And certainly large enough for your stature.”

“A full eighteen hands tall, in fact.” Ben slips a bridle over Grim’s head and passes him to a waiting groom. He would usually prefer to saddle his own horse, but Kestrel—after being thoroughly checked over by Rey, himself, and the head groom to ensure she was in good condition after her long journey—and a mare for Tallie are already saddled and waiting.

There had been a moment of hesitation when Rey had pointed out her saddle, for it turned out that she had two—one for riding sidesaddle like the proper young lady she claimed to be, and another for riding astride whenever she could get away with it.

“You know, my mother prefers to ride astride when on her own lands,” Ben had remarked. “We do many things our own way in Alderaan.”

Rey’s smile, brighter than the early morning sunshine, was yet another confirmation that he had made the right choice in selecting his bride and Alderaan’s next duchess.

The groom now saddling Grimtaash is chatting with Tallie, so Ben impulsively steers Rey into a shadowy corner by the feed room—not quite out of sight of the breezeway, but secluded enough that it will take a moment to spot them.

“I thought we might have a brief moment of privacy,” he murmurs, taking in her wide eyes, slightly parted lips, and the narrow distance between them that she does not seek to increase. “How are you, truly? Is your room comfortable? Has my family frightened you off?”

Have I frightened you off, he means. He closes his mouth firmly, lest he bombard her with further questions.

“I am well, truly.” She places a gloved hand on his chest reassuringly and favours him with another small, brilliant smile. “Your family is lovely. I keep having to remind myself that I am truly in Alderaan and soon to be married and this is not all some strange dream.”

“A good dream, I hope?” Ben manages.

“Oh, certainly. Do you ever have a similar feeling?”

“Yes. I have felt the same.” She is so very close and it makes speaking rather difficult. “Though it seemed more like a dream when I was anticipating your arrival, I think. Now that you are here—” He dares to brush his own gloved finger along her blushing cheek.

“Now that I am here?” Rey whispers. The divided skirt of her riding habit brushes against his boots.

“It is easier to convince myself this is real.” Emboldened, he tugs off his glove and cups her face with his bare hand. “That you are real.”

“I do not think I could dream this,” she breathes into his palm. “But it is hard to convince myself when it is all so very—very—” Her brow furrows as she searches for words.

“Does this feel like a dream?” He traces the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb.

“N—no,” she gasps, her breath puffing warm against his fingers. He had promised both of them, albeit in the context of a jest, that he would not take liberties with her, but she is so close and so earnest and responding so beautifully to his touch that he is questioning what actions between an engaged couple could truly be considered liberties.

“And this?” He bends down—he cannot help it—until his lips are quite close to hers, and she is stretching up to meet him—

“The horses are all saddled!” The sound of Tallie’s voice arrows through the fog of desire to pierce the bubble around them. “Mr. Solo, is there aught else needed before we set out?”

They spring apart, Rey smoothing her hair and Ben discretely adjusting his breeches.

“I do not think so,” he calls, stepping back into the breezeway. “So long as the food and drink is in the saddlebags, and a blanket to sit upon.”

“All packed, sir.”

Riding through the fields and groves of Alderaan with Rey is a joy. The nostalgia of his childhood haunts—a willow tree he would climb there, a brook he would splash through here, pretending that he was Caesar crossing the Rubicon—are tinged with the loneliness of an only child whose chief companions were nannies, tutors, and horses, but they take on a new air, a golden glow of possibility as he points them out to Rey. They could spend a warm day during their honeymoon relaxing together in the shade of the willow tree—and kissing under the curtain of its boughs—or wading in the brook, splashing each other with cool water until he would lift her off her feet and carry her, laughing and protesting playfully, to the bank to remove their damp garments.

The thought of Rey wading in nothing but a wet chemise is not a convenient one to dwell on while on horseback, so he points to an old oak atop a hill, now clearly in sight.

“That is our picnic destination. Shall we race to the oak?”

Rey’s eyes light up at the challenge. “And what is the prize for victory?”

“First pick of the biscuits in the picnic basket”—this, of course, is nonsense, for Ben is a gentleman and will give Rey her choice of biscuits regardless of the race’s outcome—“and perhaps the winner may request a kiss from the loser? Upon the hand,” he adds, with a glance at the maid following a handful of paces behind them.

Rey’s smile is perhaps a bit too akin a smirk to be entirely ladylike, and he loves it. (He loves her for it, but that is another thought not to dwell on too closely at the moment.)

“Very well, sir. If those are the stakes you are willing to wager, I accept. On the count of three?”

“Three—two—” Ben counts down, muscles tensing in preparation as Grim tosses his mane, sensing the imminent race, “one—”

Before the word “go” is fully out of his mouth, Rey and Kestrel have sprung ahead. For an instant he is caught up in admiring her truly fine horsemanship, but Grim needs little encouragement to race—the stallion shifts from trot to canter to gallop with the barest press of Ben’s heels, and they are off, flying across the countryside.

While Ben is far too large and heavy to be a jockey, Grimtaash likely would have made an excellent racehorse, and they have the advantage of knowing the terrain. Rey and her mare gain an early lead, but Ben steers Grim to approach the hill from a different angle, and they reach the oak—or rather, gallop past it—mere moments before Rey and Kestrel.

He has a moment of panic as he circles Grimtaash back around to the tree—ought he have let Rey win, or at least not tried so hard to be the victor?—but he sees that she is laughing as she dismounts before he can offer her assistance. No, there would be no sense in intentionally losing the race. Rey, he is sure, prizes honest sportsmanship over polite deference—which is, to his mind, yet another reason why they are perfectly suited for each other.

“I rather think, sir, that we might clarify if the race is to take place upon a particular path, or if the destination can be reached by any route the rider wishes,” Rey calls to him.

Ben dismounts and leaves Grimtaash to graze freely, knowing the stallion will not wander far and will come when he whistles. “I rather think,” he responds, “that when racing in the countryside, it would be understood that any route is fair game.”

He takes note of the chestnut locks escaping Rey’s hair pins and the sparkle in her hazel eyes, making her scowl playful rather than truly displeased.

“I see I must be careful when wagering with you,” she replies. “But I am a woman of my word.” She strides toward him and boldly takes his hand, brushing her lips over the leather of his glove—in contrast to a proper gentleman’s kiss, which dictates that one must only kiss the air just above a lady’s hand and never actually make contact—just before the sound of trotting hooves and jingling tack heralds Tallie riding up the hill. Ben stands stock-still to keep himself from bending down and capturing Rey’s lips with his, the exhilaration of their race flowing into the exhilaration of having her so close even for a moment.

The heightened colour in Rey's cheeks as she steps back indicates that she is not unaffected, either. But by the time Tallie appears—having done an admirable job of keeping up with them, for one unaccustomed to swift rides—they have busied themselves with setting out a blanket, food, and bottles of cold, fizzy cider in the dappled shade beneath the old oak.

As they picnic on cold meats, fresh plums, strawberries, and Shrewsbury cakes, Rey reciprocates Ben's stories of boyhood adventure in Alderaan with tales of her own childhood in Stewjon, though he learns that she had not come to live with Lord Kenobi until she was nearly eight years old.

“Lord Kenobi was traveling in Arabia when my parents died, and though my father was nephew to an earl, they fell on hard times when I was very young. They had neither the means nor the foresight to hire a solicitor or some other person to see to my future,” she explains, her gaze fixed on her hands as she twists stems of grass together. “Our landlady’s letters never reached him until he at last returned to England, but I was fortunate that she, being elderly and having no children of her own, took me in rather than turn me out onto the street.”

Fortunate, Ben further learns, means that at the tender age of three, Rey was already helping with the washing up; by six, she swept the floors at the boarding-house daily and assisted Mrs. Kanata with everything from shopping to laundry to scouring the privy.

“My practicality is perhaps not so much a philosophical matter as a matter of habit, learned young,” she explains quietly. “And the matter of my early upbringing is one reason I did not wish to have a formal debut and Lord Kenobi did not push me to do so, for I expected there might be unpleasant talk among the ton.”

“If anything I would suppose the story would be regarded as romantic—something of a fairy tale,” Ben ventures.

Rey frowns, the blades of grass breaking between her fingers. “But that is just it. They would paint a contrast between how dreadful my life must have been as a young child and how wonderful it must have been once I was rescued and no longer had to wash clothes and sweep floors. Yet although my life was harder, certainly, and I do not miss scrubbing dirty laundry, it was far from dreadful. Although Mrs. Kanata needed my help with household work, I was not lacking for affection, or such education as she could provide.”

Ben contemplates all of this, now with a greater understanding of Rey’s willingness to become a governess rather than seek a hasty marriage. “Are you still in contact with Mrs. Kanata?”

With a bittersweet smile, Rey replies, “I visited her—or, rather, she visited at Stewjon Manor regularly until she passed. I believe Lord Kenobi offered her a handsomely paid position in his household, but she wished to maintain the boarding-house she had run for decades, and instead came to call on me nearly every week.”

“A role model of an independent woman,” Ben muses.

“Indeed. But she did not hesitate to part with my assistance and companionship in order to give me a life of greater ease and privilege. She told me that I would find belonging in this world, too.”

“And have you?” Ben holds his breath.

“For a long time I doubted it,” Rey replies, with a wry twist of her lips. “Stewjon Manor, certainly, is—was—home, but I did not feel like I belonged whenever I would visit some other noble estate, and I certainly did not belong down-stairs any longer, not with silk skirts and elocution lessons and all the expectations befitting the ward of an earl. But—” she glances at him “—you seem intent on convincing me that I belong here, with you.”

“I do not think I could convince you of that, if you did not already wish it to be true,” Ben points out, his pulse racing. His heart accelerates to thumping in double-time when Rey smiles at him and drops the shreds of grass, instead placing one of her hands on the blanket just near enough his own that their little fingers brush. They are both ungloved, as they have been eating, and the touch of her bare skin on his is thrilling. Intoxicating. Enthralling. He had always thought it an overwrought device when a song or poem spoke of being undone by the merest brush of a lover’s skin, but perhaps there is truth in the sentiment after all.

He glances at Tallie, who appears to be absorbed in plaiting a daisy chain, and dares to turn his palm upward, sliding his fingers between Rey’s until their hands are loosely clasped. There is colour upon her cheeks that he does not think is from the day’s mild warmth, and the tips of his own ears feel rather warm, as if he is a green lad of nineteen rather than a man of nine-and-twenty.

They sit like that for some time, with hands clasped, a few more secrets of the past laid bare between them, and a future of possibilities—races and picnics and kisses and so much more—spread out before them.

—

There is a part of Rey that will always love the moors and cliffs of Stewjon, but Alderaan on the cusp of summer has captured her heart just as thoroughly as its heir. Ancient willows trailing their boughs in the lazy embrace of mossy-banked streams, dragonflies skimming the surface in search of smaller insects. Verdant, rolling hills enclosing fields of wheat and barley, dotted by flocks of grazing sheep mirroring the wispy clouds that drift overhead. Swallows swooping over the trees and bumblebees meandering between patches of flowering wild thyme. And Ben, who clearly knows and cares for his land and the people there, pointing out deer trails, the hunting cries of red hawks, and the roadways to the villages of Glarus, Kathou, and Istabith.

From the tales of his childhood, Rey can easily imagine a young Benjamin at play among the trees and brooks, a serious frown on a little boy’s face as he directs a pitched battle among wooden soldiers, or a dimpled grin breaking through as he chases after a harried nanny with a frog in hand. It is only a small step further to speculate on what their own children might look like—but there will be plenty of time to dwell on those possibilities later, she tells herself strictly. Instead, she finds herself sharing the defining pieces of her own upbringing that had never made it into her letters—for why would they have, when Ben had no idea she had ever been anything other than a gently bred young lady who happened to be the ward of her great-uncle?

She does not suppose he can entirely fathom her explanation of her life with Mrs. Kanata, nor why she guards the half-remembered recollections so fiercely, as it is doubtful he has ever washed up after a meal or scrubbed a chamber pot. But he listens most intently, and it feels as though, even if he does not fully comprehend the circumstances that shaped her, he understands the woman she has become. And that, in turn, is a sort of belonging Rey never expected to have with a husband. Not a belonging to, as the law might declare, but a belonging with.

When they return to Aldera Hall following their picnic, Ben shows her the location where he thinks to build a mews, the kennel with the hounds—she is charmed by the curly coated retrievers in particular—and the gardens with night-blooming jasmine and starflowers, Tallie patiently trailing behind them for the sake of propriety.

Eventually, they join his parents and her Uncle Obi, who are taking tea upon the terrace. Ben is treated to a strict speech by his namesake on the subject of being a devoted and faithful husband to Rey, which makes her blush for much less enjoyable reasons than holding hands with him.

In the evening, she manages to write a few lines in response to Ben’s letter, which she means to pass to him at breakfast, if she can manage to do so discreetly. Like as not, she could get away with giving him a letter indiscreetly, but that would be rather less fun, and not in keeping with the game they have created for each other.

Alderaan, June 1st

Dear Ben,

If plans for an assignation were to exist and be uncovered, I expect your parents and my great-uncle would be more likely to set a guard upon my bedchamber than to move the wedding day forward and upset all your mother’s careful planning.

As to the actual contents of your letter, I admit that I have no idea what to say in response to all your flattery—truly, in the future you need not flatter me so much!—but the reassurances at the core were most appreciated. I am a quick study, at least, so I shall follow your lead and that of your mother when it comes to Town manners. Perhaps I ought to practise a polite and disaffected mien particularly for situations involving those matchmaking mamas you once mentioned, who shall no doubt glare at me most dreadfully for emerging from obscurity to take the eligible Mr. Solo off the Marriage Mart.

“How did you manage to catch his eye?” they may cry (emphasizing the “you” just enough to be pointed without displaying overt offense). At which point I must reply, if I were to be wholly truthful, “I told him he was appallingly rude, an utter boor, and lacking in gentlemanly conduct, and yet somehow we eventually ended up wed! No, Lady Suchandsuch, I do not recommend your daughter employ such a stratagem, as you call it. Well, Mrs. Soandso, Mr. Solo proposed by letter when I was some two hundred miles to the north, so any rumors of ruination are both entirely false and poorly researched.”

Or I could simply say, “It was the duchess’s idea,” and I suspect that any-body who has met your mother will nod in understanding and not dare cross her. Yet we shall know the truth—that we fell in fell into an understanding as much despite Her Grace’s prompting as owing to it.

In any case, I thank you for a lovely picnic today, and for listening with such careful attention to my rambling stories (though I shall request a rematch of our race once Kestrel and I have better learned the trails around Aldera Hall!). I must now balance the idyllic nature of the whole excursion against several convincing arguments that I did not dream the entire thing. Certainly I shall be contemplating those well-made points as I ready myself for bed, and again once I am beneath the covers.

Yours, and soon to swear to it,

Rey Kenobi

Chapter Text

Alderaan, June 2nd

Dear Rey,

While I cannot recall my exact words regarding Town manners and fine society, I vow that in our letters I have always, and will always, eschew flattery in favor of unvarnished truth. Perhaps not impartial truth, for I am by no means impartial where you are concerned, but know that if I pay you a compliment, I mean it wholly and truly.

For example, when I compliment your wit, the incontrovertible truth is that your imagined conversation with Society matrons made me laugh aloud. When I compliment your riding skills, it is my earnest belief that only my greater familiarity with the terrain gave me the advantage yesterday. When I compliment your uncommon poise, I tell you honestly that I have heard many young ladies and gentleman express great consternation over a journey of two days’ time or moving to a different part of town, yet you have not once complained of relocating across half the isle to marry me.

And Rey, darling, when I compliment your beauty, that virtue which encompasses mind, spirit, and body, I know three things to be true:

The aspects of your mind—your wit, your practicality, your knowledge of philosophy—drew me in as much as your objectively lovely eyes.

The qualities of your spirit—your poise, your sense of adventure, your fierce nature—give your eyes the spark that makes them lovelier than any others I have seen, and likewise grant your smiling lips the curve that is so particularly alluring to me.

The characteristics of your body—eyes, lips, collarbones, bosom, all the parts I have seen and those I have yet to see—are a reflection of all the rest, and all the more beautiful for your lovely mind and spirit. Even if you cannot comprehend the truth of these statements at the present moment, soon you shall be able to see—and feel —what the mere thought of you can do to me.

If you ever in the future have difficulty admitting my compliments as sincere and honest, I shall not take offence. Instead, I hope you shall permit me to kiss you, most thoroughly, over and over and all over, until you are convinced of the veracity of my words.

Counting down the hours until I can count—and then lose count of—kisses given and received,

Your Ben

—

The final day before the wedding passes in a whirl of preparations, a more complete tour of Aldera Hall, and meeting the staff. The butler, Mr. Pio, is so exceedingly formal that Rey reverts to calling Leia “Your Grace” while in his presence; meanwhile, the head gardener, Artie, seems to communicate more in grunts and whistles than English words, but makes his meaning known all the same.

Rey manages to give Ben her letter at breakfast, but she only sees him once more before supper. He stops by the sitting-room while she and Leia are having a fortifying cup of tea in-between meeting the indoor and outdoor household staff, and presents her with a bouquet of heavy, fragrant pink roses wrapped in trailing ivy stems.

Speechless, she buries her nose in the soft petals. She is unsure if there is some hidden meaning to the choice of flowers and greenery, but the roses themselves are exquisite: lush blooms with golden centers surrounded by soft pink fading to creamy white on the outermost petals. From the corner of her eye, she sees the duchess conceal a pleased smile behind her teacup.

Ben shifts his weight from one foot to the other, almost bashful as he addresses her. “I am most grateful for the unique opportunities afforded by our unconventional courtship”—his eyes meet hers for a brief instant, then flick toward his mother—“such as the chance to build a strong friendship.” He clears his throat. “But I should be remiss in my duty as a gentleman if I married a lady without ever having gifted her flowers. I hope these are to your liking.”

“Oh! yes, very much so,” Rey manages. “To my liking, that is. Thank you—they are beautiful.”

“Yes,” he agrees, then pauses, blinking as if recollecting something. “That is, you are welcome.”

They stare at each other for a moment, until Ben coughs and excuses himself, muttering that he must meet with his father and the new steward, Mr. Calrissian, about some estate matters.

Ben’s uncle Mr. Bacca arrives from Wales that afternoon, and Mr. Dameron and Mr. Storm join them just in time for supper. Rey finds herself seated between the latter and her fiancé, who proves himself most distracting by brushing her ungloved hand beneath the table with his own. Fortunately for the sake of her social graces, Mr. Dameron—the son of Viscount Kes Dameron, and lately a scholar of history at Oxford—occasionally engages Ben in conversation about mutual acquaintances.

This gives Rey opportunity to converse with Mr. Storm, a soldier-turned-scholar from the Continent, whose easy manners and fascinating tales of journeys across Europe and North Africa have her wondering if Ben would be amenable to some travel of their own, at some point when the estate can spare them long enough. He has never spoken of a grand tour of his own, but she is realising that there is much they still do not know about one another. They have exchanged perhaps two dozen letters in total, and known each other in person for exactly two days.

Then again, the sum of substantive conversations they have shared, over the course of eight months, is certainly greater than some couples are afforded. And besides, Rey reminds herself, trying to soothe her nerves, they have a lifetime to learn one another. Ben has given no sign of wishing to call off their wedding—indeed, on the contrary, he only this afternoon presented her with the most beautiful bouquet, which is now in a place of honour upon her dressing table. And yesterday in the stables, the way his eyes had grown dark and wanting when he brushed her lips with his finger, when she was sure he had been about to kiss her—

Well. Perhaps the supper-table is not the ideal place to dwell on such thoughts.

As the only ladies in the party are Leia and Rey herself, at least until Lady Huxley’s arrival on the morrow, they elect not to split into separate groups after supper. Instead, the duchess leads the entire party into the drawing-room for a few rounds of charades. Contrary to what Rey expected, which was that the young people would show the most enthusiasm for the game, the older crowd approaches it with the same earnest gravity one might expect of a seasoned bowler preparing for a cricket match at Hambledon.

To begin with, Han and Mr. Bacca declare themselves a duo act, with the former interpreting the latter’s heavy Welsh accent for those unaccustomed to it. Between Leia and Obi calling out guesses—and engaging in some good-natured heckling—even the gregarious Mr. Dameron has difficulty getting a word in edgewise.

Then the duchess herself acts out some scene in which she appears to be alternately firing a pistol and climbing the rigging of a ship, much to the confusion of the younger set.

“Are you not uncommonly short for a deckhand?” Han asks his wife, causing Obi to guffaw and Mr. Bacca to roar with laughter while Rey, Ben, Mr. Dameron, and Mr. Storm all exchange bemused glances.

Her silver-streaked braids and impeccable posture lend Leia a regal dignity even while holds her nose closed with one hand, face screwed up as if enduring a dreadful smell.

“Oh! midden heap!” the duke exclaims, waving his glass of brandy. (There had been some negotiation between him and the duchess as to the amount of brandy that might be permitted under the doctor’s recommendations, which Rey had largely missed due to Mr. Dameron’s impertinent inquiries as to whether, as Ben’s best man, he ought to be concerned that Ben will swoon upon seeing her to-morrow. “I have never fainted before and I am not liable to now,” Ben had retorted, but Mr. Dameron would allegedly be prepared with smelling salts regardless.)

“Midden—oh, first syllable—mid—”

Leia begins acting out a duel, to which Obi shouts pointers at a volume Rey has not heard her great-uncle reach in quite some time.

“Middleman?” Mr. Storm suggests, valiantly attempting to raise his voice over the rumble of Mr. Bacca’s laughter. “Middle Ages?”

Amid the commotion, Ben slips her a book, a slender volume of sky-blue leather embossed with gold leaf. Gilded letters on the front cover, slightly worn with age, spell out Tales of Ancient Alderaan—and there is a small gap between some pages where Rey suspects a letter is tucked inside.

“Chapter six is The Tale of Grimtaash,” Ben murmurs. “This is the copy from the family library, and I thought you might be interested in perusing it. I believe I mentioned it at some point in a letter—”

“The letter in which you proposed.”

Tilting his head to regard her, Ben looks at her as if surprised that she remembers which one of his letters contained mention of the book now in her hands. They are sitting side by side upon a sofa—not quite touching, but certainly closer than Rey imagines would be proper for a courting couple, were they not among a merry family party and to be wed in the next half-day. Indeed, by this time to-morrow all their guests shall have departed and she and Ben shall be left alone to consummate their marriage. That is a thought which makes her heart pound and a confusing tangle of excitement, trepidation, and arousal gather somewhere low in her belly.

“Yes. That was the one.” Ben presses his teeth into his full lower lip thoughtfully, making that tangled knot of emotions within Rey lurch. She suddenly wishes to replace his teeth with her own, a very strange yet thrilling notion. She is beginning to realize that, as much as a certain pamphlet had expanded her education on matters of bedsport, there must be a great deal more still to discover. And for some reason Ben wishes to discover it all with her—or rather, to educate her on the subject firsthand. As a man of nine-and-twenty, he is assuredly well-versed in such activities already (no doubt through experience at establishments a lady would not dream of entering).

“Is that why you proposed?” she blurts out. From the corner of her eye, she notes that the older generation is still engaged in charades, and Mr. Storm and Mr. Dameron are paying them no mind, for they are conversing with their heads inclined toward each other, much as she and Ben are. A lock of Mr. Dameron’s curly hair falls forward across his face, and Mr. Storm carefully tucks it behind the other man’s ear, dark fingers lingering slightly.

Oh. Oh. Rey tucks that revelation away for later when she is not so occupied with her own paramour.

Ben’s brow wrinkles with confusion. “Did I propose because I thought you would enjoy the books in our library?”

“No, because you—because—” Rey grasps for the words to lead him to where her thoughts have leaped ahead. “Because you knew we shared similar interests, certain of which you have had rather more education in.” In fact, as he is a man who has gone to university, he has been privileged with a great deal more education in many matters. But she is not speaking of those at present, which she communicates with a meaningfully raised brow.

“Did you—” she begins, and falters. Damnation, she must not stumble over her words like a colt attempting to stand for the first time. “Were you moved to propose because you needed a wife and were pleased by the idea of being my tutor in certain matters?” The related question she does not speak aloud: If Ben is attracted to her inexperience, where will they be when she is no longer an innocent?

Her fiancé blinks a few times, clearly uncomprehending how she has leapt from the subject of books to this line of inquiry. Yet he answers her all the same, plainly choosing his words with care even as the faintest hint of colour rises in his pale cheeks.

“I do need a wife, and I do enjoy the idea of seeing to your education in those matters.” Ben shifts next to her, muscular thighs as tense as they were when racing atop his steed. “But I would not say that was the whole of it, or even chief among my reasons.”

She waits with bated breath, the commotion of the charades game briefly fading into background noise.

“Rey, I—”

“Middle of nowhere? Truly? And you began with midden?” Han bellows in a most un-ducal way, underscored by Mr. Bacca’s grumble of agreement.

“It was a reference I thought you would all swiftly comprehend!” Leia retorts.

Ben sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, the furrow in his brow deepening until Rey longs to smooth it away with a gentle finger—or perhaps her lips. Her every nerve is still humming from the sound of her given name at last falling from Ben’s mouth, the sight of his full lips pouting to form the R as if begging to be kissed—

“And that is my cue to turn in for the night.” Uncle Obi chuckles, which turns into a cough. Rey quickly motions a footman to fetch a glass of water, while the rest of the party comes to the conclusion that with such an important day upon the morrow, they ought to likewise retire to bed.

To Rey’s great relief, Mr. Storm overrides her great-uncle’s protests and insists that he needs more opportunities to keep up his military training, thereby convincing Lord Kenobi to let him carry the older man up the stairs with apparent ease.

“I hope you sleep well, Miss Kenobi,” Ben says when they part at the top of the stairs, all the guests (save for Mr. Bacca, who is clearly considered family) headed to their bedchambers opposite the family wing.

“Thank you, Mr. Solo.” Rey clutches Tales of Ancient Alderaan and wonders if she can get away with a witticism about Ben’s bed while her great-uncle is within earshot. “I hope you likewise sleep well—and not upon the chaise in your study, either.”

“In my own bed, I assure you,” Ben replies at once, eyes fixed upon her. “I have been told in no uncertain terms that my fiancée expects me to be in good health for our wedding day.”

“Quite so,” Rey manages. “I hear that is to-morrow, is it not?”

“Just a few more hours.” Ben’s voice is low, fervent, almost hoarse, but the curve of his lips hints at a smile as he adds. “I had better rest while I can.”

Pulse racing at the implication, Rey manages a parting bon mot: “A wise idea, it seems. I am sure you have things well in hand, yes?”

Her fiancé’s sudden speechlessness is both an answer and a victory, in Rey’s considered opinion.

—

Alderaan, June 3rd

Dear Ben,

I have asked Bryony to deliver this to Mitaka who is to convey it to you (with many promises that it is not a note to tell you I am running away or calling things off or any such nonsense).

Truly, this missive has little real purpose, except that I have a recent letter in which you mention that the sight of my hand-writing calmed your nerves. As I have found myself unaccountably anxious this morning, I thought you might be in a similar state. So, I suppose this is entirely the opposite of a message that I am fleeing from the altar like an overwrought chapbook heroine: it is a promise that I shall see you at the church in just a few hours.

For the last time with this name before I share yours,
I am,

Rey Kenobi

—

By eight o’clock on the morning of her wedding day, Rey has bathed, picked at the toast on her tray, and written a note to Ben in which she hopes she sounds rather calmer than she feels. She then realizes that she is famished—and furthermore does not wish to swoon at the altar and find herself in need of Mr. Dameron’s smelling salts—prompting her to devour the rest of her toast in a few unladylike bites, while leaning over her dressing table wearing only her chemise and stays. Bryony and Tallie bustle to and fro, the former instructing the latter on aspects of Rey’s care as if she is a prize mare and not a woman who can technically bathe and dress herself (well, if the fastenings of her garments are not prohibitively complicated).

Shortly thereafter, Leia sweeps into the room, the duchess already arrayed in a regal plum-coloured gown. Bryony has just gone to deliver Rey’s note to Mitaka, and Tallie is brushing Rey’s hair, but Leia shoos the maid away and takes hold of the brush herself.

“Tallie, would you fetch the tiara from my dressing table?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Tallie curtsies, leaving the room as Leia opens a box of hairpins.

“One of our Alderaanian traditions is the language of braids,” the duchess explains. “Much as some employ the language of flowers in sending a bouquet, certain plaits have distinct meanings and can be combined to send a message—or honour a special occasion, such as this one.”

Rey had surmised that braided hairstyles were popular in Alderaan, between Leia’s elaborate updos and the simpler plaits worn by many of the housemaids, but she had not yet realized there were meanings associated with each one. The duchess’s current crown of braids, which Rey can see in the looking-glass, is subtly different from the previous day’s style, though she does not know enough to say how exactly it is changed.

“What do your braids mean to-day?”

“The crown style, wrapped around the head, indicates that I am a noble lady of Alderaan. The specific plait, a three-strand braid where one of the strands is itself a braid, simply means mother.” Leia rests a gentle hand upon Rey’s shoulder. “For you, if you are amenable, I think a similar crown would do nicely, with braids signifying both daughter and wife, and some strands left to frame your face—for this is an art before all else! And I have sent Tallie to fetch my mother’s tiara, which shall co-ordinate beautifully with your lovely dress.”

Rey blinks away the prickling of tears in her eyes. Perhaps it is not only Ben who wishes to demonstrate that she belongs here.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “That sounds perfect.”

Leia’s deft hands separate Rey’s locks into several sections. It is not common for a gentlewoman to dress her own hair, let alone another’s, but it seems this Alderaanian tradition supersedes such customs. In any case, it feels like a great honour.

“Now, my dear, how much do you know of what passes between a man and a woman once they are wed, and how a woman comes to be with child?”

Truly, Rey should have anticipated this question. However, as she did not, and she certainly cannot answer with the whole truth—which is that the duchess’s own son sent her a most informative and improper pamphlet on the subject—she replies as honestly she can: “Oh! Enough, I should think.”

In the looking-glass, she observes the colour rising in her own cheeks as well as the duchess’s delicate frown. “Are you quite certain?” Leia presses. “I know it is de rigueur for young ladies to be kept in the dark on these matters until the last possible moment, and I have heard of brides who were only told what to expect in the vaguest possible terms, poor things.”

Her colour now quite high indeed, Rey replies, “I do have one or two married friends in Stewjon”—this was true, if she counted the housekeeper and the cook—“and I spent a great deal of time with the horses, besides. Though I know it is not quite the same thing,” she adds hastily, upon seeing Leia’s eyebrows arch high above her warm brown eyes, so similar to Ben’s. Well, I know now, thanks to your son.

“Well, I can see from how much you are blushing that you are at least informed of the basics. My son is quite a large man”—at this, Rey blushes all the more—“but he shall be gentle, both because he adores you and because he knows that I shall have his head if he is not.” Leia tucks a hair-pin in place and pats Rey’s shoulder. “Whatever else you may have heard, trust me that it is supposed to be enjoyable for all parties, so do not hesitate to give him ample feedback.”

Tallie returns at that moment, which is a blessing, for Rey has no idea what to say and can see in the looking-glass that the colour of her face is rather closer to the red of the tomatoes ripening in the greenhouse than a shade of pink suitable for a blushing bride.

“Oh,” Leia adds, as she settles the golden tiara upon Rey’s head. “Do not expect Tallie to take down your braids to-night. By Alderaanian custom, the other only person who may unbraid your hair is your husband.”

—

“I quite like your Miss Kenobi,” Dameron declares, seating himself on the chaise in Ben’s study. Ben elects to continue pacing and not mention to Dameron what activities he has recently engaged in on said chaise. “An intelligent, beautiful lady—despite her questionable taste in gentlemen.”

“It is my wedding day,” Ben grumbles. “You could try being nice, for once.”

“Now, Solo, nice was not included in the duties of best man,” Dameron chides.

“I could still change my mind,” Ben threatens. “My father was a bit put out that my mother is to have a part in the ceremony, but not him.”

“You have already given me the rings to hold.” Dameron pats the pocket of his waistcoat. “I have never seen an English gentleman wearing a wedding ring, but it suits your newly discovered romantic nature.”

“They belonged to my grandparents,” Ben mutters. His mother’s parents had passed when he was a young boy, leaving him with only hazy memories of the former duke and duchess, but by all accounts they had loved each other deeply. Moreover, they had supported his parents’ unconventional—to the point of scandalous—match. Breha Organa’s ring with small blossoms of rose cut diamonds feels like the perfect choice for Rey, and Leia had gone misty-eyed when Ben asked for the matching gold band worn by Bail Organa, engraved with the words DUAE MANUS, UNUM COR. Two hands, one heart.

There’s a knock on the door, and Han’s voice calls, “Kids? Her Worshipfulness says she and the bride shall be departing for church in a quarter hour, so it’s time for us to get in the carriage.”

Ben yanks the door open. “Why has she sent you and not a member of the staff?”

His father grins crookedly, unperturbed. “Because the staff are enough occupied with preparing the wedding breakfast, moving Rey’s things, and packing for our month in town. Besides, your mother loves to order me around.”

“Her Grace is like a general directing her troops,” Dameron observes, with begrudging admiration. “We had best obey, lest we be court-martialed.”

Mr. Storm joins Ben and Dameron in one carriage, while Han takes another with Mr. Bacca and Lord Kenobi. Ben assumes Lord and Lady Huxley are meeting their party at the church, or simply joining them for the celebration following, but in truth he spares little thought for anyone who is not Rey. Tucked in his waistcoat pocket is the note she sent him this very morning, with her promise that she shall see him at the altar. He had not feared that she would call off the wedding—she has had ample opportunity to do so over the last few days, surely?—but the implication that she is going to the altar eagerly, not merely dutifully, is most reassuring indeed.

However, Ben reminds himself, it is fine if Rey is eager to marry him more for practical reasons rather than sentimental ones. She is clearly not indifferent to him, if the frequent colour in her cheeks and their almost-kiss in the stables is any indication. He has plenty of time to show her that their marriage need not be one of convenience, and to convince her that his interest goes far beyond being the man with the privilege of introducing her to bedsport. And he ought to reveal his feelings gradually; after her assumption that his compliments were mere flattery, he worries that she might not comprehend his sincerity if he speaks the words aloud before conveying them beyond all doubt with his actions.

Such thoughts occupy him up until the moment he finds himself at the altar, pacing in what he hopes is a composed, manly way and not a conspicuous alternative to nervous fidgeting.

“Do you have the rings?” he asks Dameron.

The other man rolls his eyes. “No, my pocket spontaneously developed a hole between the carriage and the church and they were tragically lost.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” Ben gripes. “You do have still them, though?”

“Yes, Solo, I still have the rings.” Dameron pats him on the shoulder, though he is a hand shorter than Ben. “It will all be fine.”

Ben is just about to check his pocket-watch when the church doors open, mid-morning sunlight spilling into the nave like golden honey. His breath catches, anticipating Rey’s entrance, but the first figure to step into the church is his mother. She gives him a proud smile as she takes her place opposite Dameron, framing the center of the altar where he and Rey will kneel before the minister to plight their troth.

A year ago, the idea that his mother would show more pride and approval upon his wedding day than at any point in nearly three decades of attempting to do his duty would have rankled. But many things are different now. Since his father’s health became more fragile, his parents are no longer absent and distracted; the three of them have spent the past few consecutive months at Aldera Hall together, as a family, which is a novel experience. (In fact, Ben is quite tired of being a party to their fond bickering; he looks forward to a break from their company for more reasons than privacy with Rey.)

So, if his mother is proud of him for marrying Rey—well, perhaps she is quite right in that response, for Ben feels most fortunate indeed, to have won the hand of such a bride. And he can likewise recognise that he is different, too: less prone to bouts of petulance and frustration, quicker to smile, more apt to appreciate things he had formerly taken for granted—like cold, fizzy cider after a ride upon a warm day, and sunshine filtered through the green of oak tree leaves. The signs, he suspects, of a man—dare he say it?—in love.

But all such philosophising leaves his mind the instant Rey appears at the end of the nave, a glowing silhouette haloed by the morning light. She wears a pale green dress the colour of birch leaves in spring, with gold trim and a sheer, gold-embroidered veil flowing behind her. Ben is vaguely aware of Lord Kenobi beside her, but he has eyes only for his bride. She is a vision. A goddess heralding the love betwixt Spring and Summer. He can hardly believe that she is here to marry him.

As Rey draws closer, he sees that her braids mean beloved daughter and cherished wife, and he must blink away an unexpected tear or two. Tucked into her braids is a tiara he recognises as having belonged to his grandmother, with small golden rays like sunrise shining over the horizon. The greens and golds of her gown make her hazel eyes even more luminous. And in her hands, she clutches a bouquet of daisies, blue violets, myrtle, and white bridal roses.

The ceremony is something of a blur; there is a great deal of sermonizing on the part of the minister about God and Adam and Eve, but Ben does not retain a word of it until the part where Rey places her right hand in his. Her eyebrows arch in surprise when the marriage vows deviate from those in The Book of Common Prayer, asking each of them to love, honour, and keep only unto each other without mention of obey or serve on her part.

“We have our own traditions in Alderaan,” he whispers as the minister recites the words they are to repeat. Rey’s small, secret smile—meant just for him, Ben thinks—is brighter than the colourful beams of sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows around them.

Rey passes her bouquet to Leia when it comes time for Ben to place the ring upon her finger. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he vows, meaning every syllable. His hands are only shaking a very little bit.

The minister, instructed beforehand in the planned exchange of rings, instructs Rey to repeat the same words while she slides the engraved gold band on the fourth finger of Ben’s left hand. Her own hands are steady, but her eyes are bright and luminous with unshed tears. He knows just how she feels, that wellspring of overwhelmed, grateful, joyous emotions overflowing from deep within his heart.

They kneel before the priest, still holding hands, as he pronounces them man and wife and begins a sermon that Ben does not comprehend a single word of.

Rey is his wife.

His, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, as long as they both shall live.

He only realizes how widely he is smiling when she grins back at him, their entwined hands clasping each other just a little tighter.

—

The carriages that brought them to the church are waiting outside, so they can return to Aldera Hall for the wedding breakfast. Ben immediately lifts Rey in his arms—one around her waist, another beneath her knees, so she is held against his broad chest as he makes for the Solo family carriage.

“Ben!” she protests laughingly. “Ought we not wait for our family and friends?” Even amidst the tumult of feelings she has experienced over the past half-hour, there is a thrill in how easily the words our family come to her lips.

“We shall see them soon enough at breakfast,” Ben replies, carefully ducking inside the carriage without letting go of her. “For the time being, I mean to have a few moments alone with my sweet wife.”

Oh. Well then. Rey cannot deny that she likes the sound of that very much indeed.

Her husband seats himself with Rey in his lap, pulls the curtains shut, and raps on the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to move.

“Rey,” Ben murmurs, his attention focused on her with an intensity that takes her breath away. The expression that has not left his face since she walked down the aisle is more than admiration and fondness. It is awe and adoration, perhaps even—

“May I?” he breathes, lowering his head until she can feel his warm breath upon her lips.

In answer, she tilts her chin up and presses her mouth to his.

It is clumsy, for she has no notion of how to kiss. It is graceless, for they have yet to learn each other in this way.

But none of that signifies, for it is also the most natural thing in the world to kiss Ben, to part her lips on instinct as he pulls her closer still. There is grace in the sensations that flow from the point of their joining, in the blood that thunders through her veins, in the moan that resonates between them as her tongue sweeps across his lower lip and the kiss grows deeper, hungry, wanting.

“Ben,” she gasps when they part at last, her racing heart demanding air from her lungs. It is the first time she has addressed him as such, with a name previously only spoken in the privacy of her own bedchamber. Now she has another appellation to practise: “Husband.”

Ben—her Ben, her husband—groans, as wrecked as she is by a kiss and a name. Rey twists in his hold, swinging a leg over his thighs so she can face him fully.

“Wife,” he whispers, pressing his lips to hers again. “My sweet, beautiful wife.”

She is lost to his kisses, to the tide of sensation and emotion washing through her, threatening to sweep her under. This is her home, right here in Ben’s arms. This is her belonging, her family, her future.

As the carriage jostles over a pothole, her knees slide on the bench and her weight falls fully upon Ben’s lap, such that she can feel his hardness between her thighs. Intellectually, Rey knows what the organ beneath her is and what it is for, but she did not expect the rightness of the way they fit together, even with his trousers and her tangled skirts between them. The exact place where she is aching and damp, pressed against his hard length—it is a cool breeze of relief that stokes a blazing desire.

Her husband groans again, hands sliding down to her hips, squeezing her behind as she experimentally rocks against him.

“Darling,” he pants, his lips making a trail from her mouth to the crook of her neck. “This is very dangerous territory for a short carriage ride.”

Ben’s kisses upon her neck prevent her from forming an immediate reply. She cannot be blamed for emitting a whine instead, one that makes his hips buck up against her despite his warning. It is the barest taste of what it might feel like for him to thrust inside her, a thought as thrilling as it is overwhelming.

“We ought—to stop—then,” she mumbles, but she does not relinquish her hold on his shoulders nor her place atop him.

With a final, reluctant groan, Ben returns his hands to her waist and shifts their hips a few inches apart, just enough to hang onto the threads of their self-control. Rey feels quite accomplished with how heavily he is panting, his dark, lust-blown pupils, and the tense muscles of his thighs beneath her.

“It does not seem as though you truly wish to stop,” she observes.

Her husband’s grip tightens upon her waist, as if he is retraining himself from pulling her flush against him once again. “I mean to take my time with you to-night, Rey Solo.”

It is strange to hear her new name for the first time, but oh, how right it sounds in his deep voice. And at the thought of what is to come to-night, she recalls a particular conversation earlier and cannot help but giggle—which is not the reaction her husband expected, judging by the wrinkle that appears between his dark brows and the slight pout that emerges on his face.

“What is it?”

Rey bites her lip to stifle her laughter, marking how the action makes Ben’s eyes darken further. “Your mother asked me if I knew what to expect upon our wedding night. You cannot imagine how difficult it was to explain that I am already well informed without revealing that it was you who had used our correspondence to educate me in such matters.”

Her husband, heir to a dukedom and a man on the cusp of thirty years of age, winces beneath her. Is she already a dreadful wife, to find amusement in his consternation? “You did not reveal that detail, I hope?”

“No,” Rey promises him, “I promised you the utmost discretion, did I not?”

With an exhale, Ben wraps his arms around her and holds her close in a manner quite distinct from their prior, frantic fumblings; this embrace is all comfort and closeness. “That is a relief. I should hate to leave you a widow so soon.”

Rey giggles again and relaxes into her husband’s embrace, resting her head against his shoulder. “The duchess did say that she would have your head if you were not gentle, since you are—and I quote—quite a large man. I admit I am not entirely certain if she was referring to your general stature or—”

Ben’s groan, definitively not borne of pleasure this time, rumbles through his chest. “I would prefer my mother keep her nose out of our bedchamber.”

“Well, if it is any comfort, the threat seemed more pro forma than not, as she seemed confident that—” here she hesitates.

“That what?” Ben sounds concerned.

Well, she cannot let him fret for no reason. “That you would be gentle upon our wedding night because you adore me,” she mumbles into his neck.

“Ah.”

Rey wishes she could see his face, for she is concerned he is bothered by the insinuation that there is more than a mutual fondness and carnal interest between them. But what is the distinction between fondness and adoration? Where might adoration translate into love? It is most confusing, truly, but she does not wish to raise her hopes too high and have her heart broken.

“Those were your mother’s words,” she hastens to add. “And besides, I am hardly unwilling nor easily afeared, so I would not have you be so gentle as to deny yourself any enjoyment—”

“Rey.” Ben presses a kiss to her forehead, careful not to muss her braids or poke his eye out upon his grandmother’s tiara. “Sweet wife.”

It is most unfair of him to continue saying those words that make her shiver and grow wetter at the apex of her thighs.

“We have much to learn together and a lifetime to do it in. And I have little doubt that there shall be plenty of enjoyment for us both to-night, if I acquit myself well.”

Rey is tempted to ask him to expound further on what he means by that, but the carriage rattles to a stop and their moments of privacy come to an end. It is no matter, she tells herself. The things he has said, and the passion with which he kissed her, and the sense of home in his arms, are more important than anything else he may or may not have added.

Although she would rather continue kissing her husband and discovering how best to draw more of those pleasured groans from his lips, Rey must admit that hosting their small group of wedding guests for a late breakfast upon the terrace at Aldera Hall is not unpleasant.

Their party from last night has grown with the addition of their neighbors Lord and Lady Huxley, a recently wedded couple as dissimilar in temperament as in appearance, and yet by all accounts perfectly content with their match. The tall, ginger-haired viscount offers them both a polite handshake and genuine, if stiff, congratulations. The petite, curvaceous Lady Huxley has dark hair, golden-brown skin, and a warm smile; she effusively congratulates them and invites Rey to visit Arkanis at any time.

“The duchess tells me that you like to ride,” Lady Huxley says. “I am no expert rider like my sister, but I am certainly fond of horses. I would not object to an afternoon spent indoors with needlework or outdoors exploring the countryside."

“I am most grateful for the invitation,” Rey replies honestly. “I shall be sure to call upon you after our honeymoon, Lady Huxley.”

The viscountess wrinkles her nose delicately. “Call me Rose, I beg of you, for my mother-in-law is also the Dowager Lady Huxley, and she is nothing like the Duchess of Alderaan.”

“Then you must call me Rey. After all, the duchess thinks we are to be fast friends.” Rey lowers her voice conspiratorially. “And she was ultimately correct that Mr. Solo and I would make a good match, so I have no reason to doubt her instincts.”

Rose hides a smile behind her fan. “We ought to exchange stories of courtship, then. So long as we have other topics of conversation besides men.”

To that sentiment, Rey gives her hearty agreement.

After the couple moves away, Ben murmurs to her, “The former Lord Huxley was a dreadful traditionalist, and accordingly hated my parents. His son and I did not get along at Eton, but he married after becoming viscount, and his viscountess has worked miracles upon his temperament.”

“According to Mr. Dameron, you have experienced a similar transformation.”

“I was never a priggish little snot like Huxley,” Ben mutters. However, his affront lasts but a moment before his face crinkles into a smile, dimples showing. “But Dameron is not wrong to credit you with my much-improved mood.”

“He may have intimated that your mood shall be further improved by frequent exercise during our honeymoon,” Rey whispers as Ben passes her a glass of champagne.

“I shall take him to task for that.”

“Oh! I did not mind—he was only teasing because he is so very fond of you, I think. And I simply remarked that he and Mr. Storm must enjoy the health benefits of vigorous exercise as well this summer.”

Her husband laughs, gaze flicking to her lips as though he very much wishes to kiss her. “You, darling, are a marvel.”

The afternoon passes both slowly—for Rey is conscious every moment that as soon as their friends and family depart, she and Ben shall be alone at last—and swiftly, for there is much merriment and they hardly have a moment to eat amidst the flood of congratulations and chatter.

They cut the orange sponge cake and share it with their guests. The duke and duchess speak a handful of words about how happy they are to see Ben married and welcome Rey to their family, leaving her near tears. She discreetly dabs at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve until Ben produces a handkerchief.

Mr. Dameron invites them both to visit him in Oxford during Michaelmas term, where he can show Rey the vast libraries and impressive architecture of the university. Mr. Bacca wishes them a happy marriage and draws Ben aside to impart a few lines of advice in a low, growling tone; Rey resolves to ask her husband about it later, if he is willing to share.

Then somehow it is time for everyone to say farewell—or rather, Ben remarks with attempted innocence that his parents ought to set out in time to reach their inn before nightfall, and Mr. Storm picks up on his cue, agreeing that he and Mr. Dameron must depart for Oxford, and thus begins a general flurry of leave-taking and repeated rounds of congratulations.

Rey slips through the crowd to press a small purse into Bryony’s hands, along with a promise to write to the Kenobi household in Stewjon.

“We shan’t be ‘ome fo’ some time yet, I reckon,” Bryony tells her. “Lord Kenobi—”

“Has decided to join his friends in London rather than drag his old bones northward,” the venerable man puts in, making his way toward them with his staff in one hand and his valet’s arm in the other.

“But you do not like London,” Rey replies, dismayed. The thought of her great-uncle spending what might well be his last days in a city he has no particular fondness for rather than on his own lands is a distressing one.

“But I do like my old friends, and it is not as though I shall be gallivanting around Town.” Obi’s eyes soften, regarding her with bittersweet pride. “Do not fret over me, Rey.”

“I shall fret over you if I please.”

“Rey, child of my heart—” Obi shuffles forward and lets go of Dex’s arm to clasp her hands “—it has been the greatest honor of my life to watch you grow into a remarkable young woman, and I am overjoyed beyond words that you shall now have the family you always deserved.”

Chapter Text

It is late afternoon by the time the last carriage departs Aldera Hall, leaving the newlyweds alone in the entrance hall.

Raking a hand through his hair, Ben attempts to conceal his sudden apprehension. “Are you hungry? Should we have an early supper, or—?”

“Or?” Rey’s fingers brush against his, lightly.

“Or—we could have a tray sent up later.”

“I am in favour of that plan.” A smile tugs at the corners of Rey’s mouth, though her eyes betray a hint of anxiety. “I am not particularly hungry at the moment. At least, not for supper.”

Ben swallows hard. “I see.” Where his confidence from their interlude in the carriage has gone, he cannot say. Get it together, man, he chides himself.

“I believe I will go inspect my new room,” Rey continues. “Perhaps you might meet me there in—oh, a quarter-hour?”

“Certainly,” he manages. “I shall arrange that supper tray for later.”

His wife’s smile grows a tad mischievous, her eyes a touch less anxious. “Good. I imagine we may need the sustenance.”

Ben can only stare after her as Rey exits the room in a swish of silk skirts. Then he hurries to tell the nearest maid they shall not be using the dining-room to-night and to please leave a tray outside without knocking. Determinedly ignoring the maid’s knowing look, he dashes up the stairs after his wife.

In his room, Ben shrugs out of his tail coat, undoes his cravat, and pulls off his boots. He debates undressing further, but he does not wish to give Rey the impression that he shall fall upon her immediately. He cannot believe—actually, no, he can believe that his mother took it upon herself to assure Rey he would not act the brute upon their wedding night.

It is a small mercy that, insofar as Rey relayed it to him, the duchess used the word adore rather than making a fuss about a love match. The first person to declare that Ben loves his wife ought to be Ben himself—when he finds the perfect moment, and no sooner.

With that in mind, he knocks on the connecting door to Rey’s new bedchamber. At least some of his trepidation has been replaced by excitement—a nervous sort of excitement, to be sure, but there is relief in finally reaching the point in the day when he is supposed to be fully hard in his breeches, after battling inconvenient arousal for the entirety of their wedding breakfast.

The door opens, revealing Rey in a white chemise that makes her seem almost to glow as she looks up at him, lips slightly parted. For a moment, neither of them moves; Ben does not know whether she means to invite him into her chambers, or if he should step back and let her enter his, or—?

Rey solves his dilemma by breezing past him and examining his bedchamber with apparent fascination. “I have only been in that room fifteen minutes,” she informs him, inspecting the silver-handled shaving brush upon his dressing table. “Yours is much more lived-in and therefore interesting.”

Ben’s first thought is that he would prefer Rey’s interest lay solely in his person and not his room, but he is immediately distracted by the realization that his wife’s thin chemise is of such delicate fabric that he can see the outline of her body beneath it. He had originally imagined undressing her himself, but there will be other opportunities (or so he devoutly hopes). And perhaps it is for the best, as he has very little practice with undoing a lady’s garments.

But her hair is still pinned up, in braids that mark her as his wife, his love, his family. Braids that he now has the right—the honour—of undoing. Heart pounding, he watches Rey approach his bed, trailing a hand along the blankets.

He dares to move towards her one pace, then two. “Did you leave your hair up that I might unbraid it, Rey?”

Rey does not retreat; her pupils are wide and dark as she breathes, “Yes. I was told that it is tradition?”

Humming agreement, Ben steps behind her and runs his hands over her braids, feeling for the hair-pins. Her chestnut locks shine in the late afternoon light slanting in between the curtains, as soft as sunshine to his touch. Is it the tradition which makes this act feel as intimate as he imagines unlacing her stays would be? Or does the tradition exist precisely because this careful undoing of her public presentation is inherently erotic, evocative of all the other ways he hopes to unravel his wife’s composure?

As he sets the pins carefully upon his bedside table, Rey’s gaze lands on the mahogany box there. Her outstretched fingertips hover above the mother-of-pearl inlay. “May I ask what this contains?”

“It used to hold my preferred writing supplies, in my study.” He combs his fingers through her unbound hair—in theory to search for left-over hair-pins, but mostly for the joy of touching any part of her. “Now it belongs to your letters.”

From his vantage point, he can see soft colour rising in Rey’s cheeks as she brushes gentle fingers over the lid. “I have a similar box,” she admits. “In its contents, that is—the container itself is not nearly so fine.”

There’s some greater meaning to all this, he is sure: the fact that she was drawn to this box of all the things in his room, the way she has carefully stored his letters—it must have some divine significance. But he has no desire for philosophising at this moment. No, he is thoroughly distracted by the fact that Rey is here, in his bedchamber, standing next to his bed and wearing naught but a single layer of fabric. And she is his wife.

“I think—” Ben runs his hands through her chestnut locks again, marveling at the way she leans into his touch. The heat of her, so close. The soft, golden skin along the neckline of her chemise, begging for the touch of his lips. “I think we may enjoy discussing—perhaps even rereading—our respective letters at a later date.”

“Oh?” Rey turns to face him, her chest rising and falling rapidly under the thin white lawn of her chemise.

“But right now, when we no longer need wait a fortnight for the mail coach, when there are no longer a hundred miles between us—” He reaches for her, letting his hands settle into their place upon her waist. “I think we have other matters to attend to.”

Rey’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. “And do you mean to attend upon me, Mr. Solo?”

Holding back a groan, Ben tightens his grip ever so slightly. “None of that, darling. Use my name when you’re in my bed.”

“But we are not in your bed yet,” his pedantic little wife points out, a sly glimmer in her hazel eyes.

Although he has implicitly promised not to be beastly, the sound that escapes him now might well be described as a growl.

“That, sweet wife, is easily remedied.” He already has his hands around Rey’s waist—he simply lifts her off her feet and falls backwards upon the bed, with her on top of him.

“Ben,” she gasps, perfectly on cue. The sound of his name in her voice is heavenly sin. Combined with the warm weight of her atop his chest, legs entangled with his own, it is enough to make him throb in his breeches.

“Yes.” He cranes his neck to press a kiss to the base of her throat, right where her pulse flutters. “Again.”

This time his name emerges as more of a whine, an implicit plea that Ben is eager to fulfill. He sweeps her hair aside that he might kiss along her neck, paying special attention to the spot just above her shoulder that he discovered earlier in the carriage, until his wife is squirming above him.

He can hardly comprehend how Rey is so unreserved, so genuine in her responsiveness, so sweet in her enthusiasm. The way she moans at his touch and clumsily tugs his shirt free from his breeches has him dizzyingly aroused.

“Off?” he ventures, pulling at her chemise.

She reaches for his clothes in turn, and there is a flurry of agreement, yes and pleases far less polite and far more fervent than Ben has ever heard them. Fabric is flung left and right as they disrobe, bodies brushing against each other with no more barriers; his heart pounds faster than his mind can keep up with each new heavenly sight, each glorious sensation.

And then somehow Ben is draped over the warm, soft body of his wife, wearing only his short drawers and kissing her for all he is worth, hands roaming over her bare skin. Rey squeaks the first time his fingers brush her nipples—but when he yanks his hand away, she pulls it back, placing it upon her busom once more.

“Again, please,” she entreats him. “I was merely surprised.” Eyes dark and cheeks beautifully pink, she glances at him through her lashes. “Do not curtail our explorations so soon, husband.”

He is far too close to spilling in his pants from that look and that title alone. Ben takes a deep breath before squeezing gently, amazed at how Rey arches into his touch. The sight of his palm covering her entire breast stirs something possessive in him; he squeezes again, and then recalls that he has a mouth and knows at least something of how to use it.

At the first touch of his mouth to that rosy bud, Rey gasps and grabs at his hair, which Ben does not object to in the slightest. He lavishes attention upon her with lips and tongue until her sweet gasps and moans reach a higher pitch, then switches to her other breast to do it all over again.

As he pulls away, admiring the sight of her flushed, spit-slick skin, he takes the opportunity to steal another kiss from her equally reddened lips.

“Good?” he cannot help but inquire.

“So good,” she breathes, sending pride and arousal coursing through his veins.

Perhaps next he shall kiss his way down her body, and—

“But I wish to explore you as well,” Rey admits, almost shyly. She brushes her fingertips along the waistband of his drawers. “Without anything in the way.”

Another deep breath is required to regain the ability to speak.

“As you wish,” he croaks. How he shall maintain any control, he does not know, but he is already finding it very difficult to deny his lovely, intrepid wife anything.

Ben lies back upon the pillows with his hands gripping the sheets, thinking to allow Rey a measure of freedom to explore without him pawing at her. Eyes wide and dark, she takes in his bare arms, chest, thighs, and the prominent bulge in his smallclothes. He hopes she likes what she sees half so much as he loves her curves and angles and dusky pink nipples and the triangle of dark curls between her strong thighs that he has yet to explore.

His cheeks heat under her scrutiny—and then his whole body is flushed, hot and straining to keep still as Rey follows her gaze with her hands and lips. If he thought her mere proximity was intoxicating, it is nothing compared to having her fingers caressing his biceps and her mouth trailing kisses along his neck, collarbones—oh God, even the puff of her warm breath against his ear makes his cock throb.

She catalogues his reactions, from the way he fists the sheets more tightly when she straddles one of his thighs to the gasp he emits when she laves at his nipple as he had hers. Truly, he did not think he was so sensitive there, but his own responsiveness seems magnified a thousandfold with Rey. He is more aroused than he has ever been, and their touches have not even ventured below the waist yet.

But as if his thoughts had prompted her, Rey’s hands drift lower, tracing the dips of his hipbones.

“Ben?”

“Yes?” he manages.

“I wish to touch you here.” She scoots down on the bed and tugs gently at his waistband. “Will you show me how?”

It takes a great deal of self-control to place a hand over Rey’s and pause her movements.

“Let me touch you first,” he counters. He wants to touch her—he wants to taste her, he wants her in any and every way—

“But I am not finished exploring,” she says stubbornly. “I—” Despite her blush, there is only earnest sincerity in her expression when she insists, “I want to make my husband feel good.”

Does she know that every word she speaks makes his heart pound? That her stubbornness and unashamed curiosity unbalance him and enchant him at every turn?

When Rey tugs at his smallclothes again, Ben lifts his hips and allows her to pull them down, until he can kick the garment onto the floor.

“Oh.” Her eyes are wide, her soft lips parted. Tilting her head to one side, she examines the sight of his hard cock, straining upward toward his abdomen, balls already tight and heavy. Is she comparing him to the illustrations in that infamous pamphlet?

“Will you show me how to touch you?” she repeats.

So Ben takes her small hand in his and guides her to wrap it around him, biting his lip to keep from moaning so loudly he fears he would startle her. It is not the first time he has been touched by a woman, but that was not—this is—this is Rey.

“A little tighter,” he instructs, shuddering as she grasps him more firmly and begins to move her hand along his length.

His doom is sealed when she asks, “Can I kiss you here as well?”

“I do not believe it is considered proper,” he blurts out, like a damned fool.

He does not care about proper, per se. It is more that, until this very moment, he had still imagined their wedding night would proceed with him tenderly introducing his wife to the marital bed like the comparatively experienced man he is. Had she not suggested that he was to be her tutor in such matters? He did not expect Rey to guilelessly inquire if she might leap directly to one of his more sordid fantasies, and all before he has even had the chance to make her reach her peak.

“I thought you said propriety need have no place in our private activities?” His sweet, innocent siren of a wife leans forward to get a closer look at his straining member.

Ben cannot comprehend how she is so coherent and self-possessed to be able to quote letters from weeks ago.

“I—” he chokes out, before he stumbles and loses the knowledge of words entirely. His mind is too much occupied with the way that Rey’s position has pushed her small, perfect breasts together, presenting an alluring image that she seems entirely unaware of. The slightest whisper of warm breath against his aching bollocks.

“Unless you do not wish me to?” There is a gleam in Rey’s eyes that suggests she can guess his hesitation does not stem from a lack of desire.

Well. Far be it from him to curtail his wife’s desire to explore any aspect of bedsport.

“You may do whatever you want,” he confesses.

And to his mind’s disbelief and his body’s delight, Rey wants to wrap one of her little hands around his cock again—and she also wants to kiss the head, licking curiously at the drops of spend already leaking from him. Her eyes widen at the curse he hisses.

“Apologies,” he pants. “I ought not—”

“Do not apologize.” His wife mouths at the underside of his cock, rendering it extraordinarily difficult to pay attention to her words. “Your reactions are very gratifying.”

“Ungh” is the entirety of his witty reply, for Rey has actually taken him inside her mouth—his world narrows to warm, wet suction as her tongue wiggles curiously against him.

“You do not have to—” He curses himself for a self-sabotaging fool when she releases him with an exquisitely pleasurable hum.

But she merely blinks up at him and asks, “Now that you have taken it down, would you be so kind as to hold my hair?”

Ben can neither deny her nor himself, so he carefully gathers up her chestnut locks and holds them at the base of her skull.

“No teeth,” he gasps. It is the only tutelage he can think to offer.

Rey nods seriously before parting her lips again, and oh, sweet, sinful Heaven—

With the dregs of his self-control, Ben gently tugs her off him. He is a gentleman, this is his wife—this is their wedding night—

“If you continue, I am afraid this shall be over very quickly.”

“Oh.” Rey’s lips, glistening with spit and his arousal, purse in consideration. “How long until we can do it again, then?”

Ben likely ought to insist that he see to her first. That would seem like the gentlemanly thing to do, but in truth it is difficult to evaluate such a thing—or determine if Rey even wishes him to act the gentleman—with her mouth hovering so close to his hard cock.

“Ah—at least a quarter-hour for myself—” he groans as she immediately resumes her efforts, “but I can—to you—in the meantime.” His words are half-coherent at best, he fears, but his clever, curious wife has him so undone that he cannot seem to form complete sentences.

Rey hums in what might be agreement or confusion; the way her mouth moves around him has Ben clenching his jaw with the effort not to thrust up into her. His bollocks are tight and heavy, and sensitive to every slight brush of Rey’s fingers from where she grips his thighs.

“I will—spill soon—” he warns her. “Pull away if you do not wish—in your mouth.”

But his beautiful, contrary wife only lowers her mouth further and uses her strong little hands to pin him to the bed. Succumbing with a shout, Ben spills his seed until it leaks past her lips—the sight of which only wrings another surge of liquid heat from his loins.

It is so good—so far beyond anything he has experienced—that it takes him several gasping, searing moments to blink his eyes open once more and register Rey’s wide eyes and slight grimace.

“I am sorry,” he chokes out, aghast, letting go of her hair. “I ought to have warned you more clearly, or—”

“Oh!” Rey shakes her head, patting his hip awkwardly. “No, it is only that I did not expect the, um, taste—”

Rolling out of bed on unsteady legs, Ben wobbles towards the pitcher of water on his dressing table and pours a glass.

Rey drinks it down gratefully, her face and neck flushed and unbound hair wild around her shoulders. She passes the empty glass back to him with a small smile and waves off his attempt at another apology.

“Truly, I was simply surprised. I did not mind.”

Realizing that he is parched, Ben pours more water for himself. It clears his mind somewhat, and he takes a deep breath. He had not expected Rey to take the lead—not that he has the slightest intention to complain—but now it is his turn.

—

Leaning against his dressing table without a stitch of clothing, Ben looks like a sculptor’s ideal of the male form. His cheeks are still flushed and his hair is mussed, and even if he were not naked, it is somehow very, very clear that he has recently enjoyed a tumble in the sheets.

Rey can hardly believe her own daring—but oh, how proud she is that she, entirely unpracticed in the art of bedsport, made Ben peak with only her mouth.

The ardent focus with which he regards her is a reminder that she is also very, very naked. And not only slick between her thighs, but nearly aching to be filled, a hundredfold more intensely than she has when—

Ben sets the water glass down and grips the edge of his dressing table.

“I ought to thank you on my knees, I think.” His voice is lower and hoarser than usual, and it sends a frisson of excitement down her spine. “And I will.”

Now it is her turn to have difficulty forming words.

“But I must confess to a great deal of curiosity about something which has tormented my thoughts for months now.” His gaze caresses her before he meets her eyes, his expression nearly pleading. “Rey, sweet wife—would you show me your solo practise?”

Oh.

“You say you have thought about this a great deal?” Her voice comes out far steadier than her pounding heartbeat.

“More than I care to admit.”

“And you wish to … watch?”

Her husband nods, almost fervently. “If you are willing to let me.”

Goodness. They have not yet reached the main act, as it were, and already bedsport is even more thrilling and varied than she was able to imagine.

She reclines upon the pillows such that she can still see Ben’s face and hesitantly parts her legs. “Is this—?”

“Perfect,” he rasps.

“I have found that I prefer to start slow,” she explains, “When I have the patience for it.”

Ben nods again at her words, as attentive as if there will be an examination later.

“But—I am already rather worked up.” Her fingers part coarse curls to meet slick, heated flesh, tracing circles on her most sensitive spot—her clitoris, according to the pamphlet which extolled its role in female pleasure.

The wet sound as she slides one finger into her channel makes her pause in momentary embarrassment, but Ben’s groan is louder—and the look on his face sends a thrill though her.

“How many fingers can you take, darling?”

“I have only tried for two. I wished to practise,” Rey admits, her cheeks hot, “but I did not know you would be quite so large.”

In point of fact, Ben’s cock is rapidly hardening again, as if eager to demonstrate its size once more.

Looking at it now, she is rather astonished that she took that in her mouth—both the daring of the act itself and the sheer size of it. She had perhaps gotten carried away, though she has not a single regret.

“Show me,” Ben entreats her.

He swallows hard, throat bobbing as she squirms upon the bedsheets, adding another finger and canting her hips up to meet her hand.

His gaze is unwavering in its intensity. “Did I correctly comprehend what you wrote—that you thought of me as you did this, alone in your bed with only the candlelight to admire your beauty?”

She nods, or tries to. “Did—did you ever—?”

“Yes.” He gives himself one rough stroke as in in demonstration, eyelids fluttering shut before fixing his attention entirely on her once more. “How could I not take myself in hand and think of you nearly every day, when you stirred my blood and captivated my senses with every word you wrote?”

“Ben—” she gasps, shuddering from his words even more than her own touch. “I—oh—”

At that, his control breaks and he strides to the bed.

“Can I touch you?” he begs her. “Please?”

“Yes, yes—”

“So beautiful,” he praises, dropping to his knees and sliding his big hands up her thighs. “I want to help my beautiful wife reach her peak.”

Her senses are overwhelmed as Ben takes her hand in his and raises her slick fingers to his mouth—at the same time as he slides one of his own inside her.

With a wordless gasp, eyelids fluttering closed, her awareness narrows to sound and feeling: Ben’s tongue against her fingers, the groan that reverberates through him, the new sensation of his thick finger in her core—

Still holding her hand, he uses both their fingertips to circle her clitoris.

“Is this to your liking?” The finger within her presses deliciously deep, farther than she can reach on her own. “You are so very warm and wet, Rey. Is that all for me?”

“For you,” she gasps out. Without thinking, she adds, “Always.”

Ben inhales sharply. “Can you take another, darling?” The tip of a second finger nudges against her.

“Oh—yes.” After all, two of his fingers—significantly bigger than hers—are still not as large as the part of him she most wants. She means to tell him as much, but her breath leaves her in a rush as Ben pushes back in, her body molding around his fingers in a dizzying, delicious stretch.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “You are taking me so well, darling. I think—” His fingers flex inside her, seeking and stroking until he presses against a spot that makes her hips jerk and a cry escape her lips.

“Oh—I cannot—Ben—”

“Too much?”

“Yes—no—do not stop—please do not stop—”

Rey guides their fingers over her clitoris faster. She feels her climax building like a great storm wave off the coast of Stewjon, swelling in the distance and approaching with deceptive swiftness. Through pleasure-heavy eyelids, she sees her husband’s gaze fixed on her, as reverently awed as if he were viewing some great treasure or work of art.

The pressure inside her crests—breaks—crashes over her as she quakes around the fullness of his fingers.

“—most gorgeous sight I have ever seen,” Ben is muttering. “One more, sweet wife—give me one more.”

Their entwined hands that were touching her have fallen to the bedsheets and she holds fast to him, a tether to follow home. She is still rolling upon the wave of her climax when he lowers his mouth and kisses her tender flesh—licks her wet folds—gently sucks upon—

Another wave rises behind the first and peaks even faster. Rey arches off the bed and shatters, unable to contain such ecstasy.

Distantly, she is aware that she is crying out Ben’s name—so loudly it is probably for the best that her thighs are clamped around his ears.

When her tumbled thoughts and pleasure-tossed body finally settle, her husband joins her upon the bed and brings their still-clasped hands to rest against his chest.

“Good evening, Mrs. Solo.” His lips—still shiny with her arousal—quirk into one of his precious, lopsided smiles, though his eyes hold earnest inquiry. “Are you well?”

“Is there a word for overcome but also better than well?” Rey inquires breathlessly.

Ben’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I am afraid I can hardly think of words at all, for I am too much distracted by the loveliness in front of me.”

“You are bent on flattering me, it seems.”

“I merely speak the truth, with what feeble words I can muster.”

“Feeble does not seem to be the state of your ability to muster—” Rey claps her free hand over her mouth, shocked at her own daring. Though she is merely speaking truth aloud; there is indeed a hard length pressing against her thigh.

Her husband laughs louder than she has ever heard him and squeezes her hand.

“It seems I can muster very rapidly indeed where you are concerned. But—” he hesitates “—there is no need to rush, if you wish to call for that supper tray, or rest a while.”

Rey is certainly not one to pout in an attempt to get what she wants, but she cannot help the way her bottom lip juts out stubbornly at Ben’s words.

“Do you wish to rest?” she challenges him. “I expected my dedicated instructor would be eager to continue my tutelage in bedsport, but perhaps I was mistak—”

Ben’s lips, and the heated press of his hips against hers, halt her teasing words.

“My sweet wife is so very spirited,” he murmurs. He shifts to hover over her, his thighs nudging her to spread her legs around his broad form. “So very eager to tease—as if she is trying to make me abandon every shred of my self-control. Is that it?”

“I cannot claim to be trying to make you lose control, but I believe I would enjoy that outcome.” Rey cannot recall ever wanting anything so badly as she wants her husband inside her now, a desire so overwhelming she is too consumed by it for trepidation. If he wants her even half as much—and oh! she desperately hopes he does!—his self-control must be hanging by a thread.

Ben drops his face to her shoulder, lips moving against her skin as he lets out a long, nearly pained, groan. She can feel him lower, too, nudging against where she is wet and aching.

Her heart is racing faster than her thoughts, so it is only instinct and desire that prompts her to turn her head and whisper in his ear, “Please, Ben. Make me your wife in every way.”

—

His hips stutter at Rey’s words, and for a moment he thinks that he has entered her—but no, it is simply that she feels so warm and wet even without being inside her.

“Yes.” He kisses her again—and again, for good measure. “Yes.” Yes, he will make her his. Yes, he will be hers. Yes, he will love her for as long as they both shall live.

Ben's heartbeat pounds from his chest to his—well, other organs as he reaches down to line himself up and presses forward.

Except—he slides against her in a glide that would be delicious if he had meant to do so. It does draw a lovely gasp from Rey, who is flushed all the way to her pretty pink nipples.

“Please,” she begs so sweetly.

He wants nothing more than to give his wife what she is asking for; it seems beyond comprehension that he is stuck on the minutiae of how to do so. His limited experience involving hands and mouths served him very well until this point, but now he is fumbling.

“Only—I do not wish to hurt you,” he stalls. “Perhaps you might—ah—ride me, to begin?” He hopes it will be a simpler matter to find the right angle in that position.

“Oh! Yes, if you think it best, I—I would not mind that.” His wife’s eyes light up at his words, and Ben counts himself a lucky, lucky man.

“You will show me what to do?” she asks as they reposition themselves, elbows and knees colliding in eager haste.

“As best I can, given—given how very distracting—” His only slightly evasive response stutters to a halt; suddenly, everything lines up—as if their bodies have finally understood that they were made for this—and he enters her at last. Rey’s lovely eyes widen, and his whole world realigns.

Being inside Rey is the keenest bliss that he has ever known. The closest he has ever felt to anyone. The most incongruously right his large, awkward body has ever been, simply because his beautiful wife—so small in comparison, so fierce and determined—is letting out little huffs and moans as she presses herself down urgently until she can take all of him.

Because she wants all of him.

The incredible, dizzying instant their hips meet again, he realizes two things. First, that this is exactly where he is meant to be, quite possibly forever.

And second, that it was a good thing Rey took him in her mouth earlier, for otherwise he would be in great danger of immediately spilling into her tight, velvet warmth.

“Give me a moment,” he gasps, trying not to clutch her hips too tightly. “This is—you are—beyond imagining—”

Rey’s chest rises and falls rapidly—by God, what a sight—but otherwise she pauses her movements. Her brow furrows briefly. “I thought you had—ah—some practice with the act already?”

“Other—things,” Ben admits breathlessly. “A very few times. Never—this. Never you.”

Although the confession comes to his lips with unexpected ease, he still fears she will think his lack of experience ridiculous for a man of nine-and-twenty, and him suddenly less qualified a tutor than she had anticipated.

But if he is not mistaken, Rey’s eyes gleam with sudden possessiveness—and he can feel her clench around him.

“Never?” She bites her lower lip, reddening it further. “Why?”

He can scare believe they are having this conversation while he is inside her. Can he truly be expected to answer questions coherently under these circumstances?

There are the practical reasons, of course. The very real threats his mother issued should he get a woman with child out of wedlock.

But that consideration still does not explain why he had never truly wanted to run that risk, nor why he had not sought less risky encounters with greater frequency—or indeed, at all for the last several years.

“It did not feel right,” he tells her simply. It is the truest answer he has.

Rey bites her lip again; he wishes she would lean down so he could bite it for her.

“And—does this feel right?” The vulnerability in her tone, and the tension he can feel in the strong thighs splayed around him, propel him into motion.

“Better than right,” he assures her fervently, with an experimental thrust of his hips that draws a moan from both of them. “Perfect.”

“Oh—” she gasps, pitch rising again as they move together. “Ben—husband—”

Their exploratory rhythm is, technically speaking, less than perfect, but somehow their hands find each other, and being joined in that way, too, is better than he ever could have imagined.

He learns that Rey likes it very much when he places his mouth on her breasts as he thrusts up into her, and that when she wishes to control their pace, all he need do is set his hips at a certain angle and try not to spend too soon while she rides him.

That last is something of a challenge when his wife is letting out such sweet, breathless cries as she pleasures herself with his cock. He is undone by the sight of her, the feel of her around him, her very existence in his life and in his bed. Can she see on his face how much he loves her?

When Rey stifles a louder whine, he presses his thumb to her lower lip until she opens her mouth again.

“Let me hear you,” he entreats. “There is no need to hold back. I want every one of your noises.”

He means it. She could deafen him with her pleasure and he would thank her for it.

To his satisfaction, at the next collision of their hips she cries out so loudly that, were there anyone else in this wing of the house, they would know just how thoroughly the newlyweds are consummating their union.

“You feel so—so—” Rey breaks off on another moan.

“I know, darling.” He is almost equally incoherent. “I know.”

She is so very beautiful like this: entirely unrestrained, hair tumbling loose down her back, golden skin gleaming with the effort of riding him at the pace she’s setting now. The wet, obscene sounds of their bodies form a harmony with their wordless exultations, a lewd paean to their pleasure.

Rey brings their joined hands to the dark curls between her legs. “Please—“

She does not even have to ask. Ben brushes his fingers against her clitoris and groans as she instantly clenches around him.

Another clumsy but effective swipe of his fingers, another rise and fall of her hips, and his sweet wife reaches her peak with a cry of his name. The exquisite sensations of her climax rippling around him are joined by a rush of emotion—she is his wife, flushed and magnificent atop him, reaching a pinnacle of pleasure because of his body, his touch. He holds Rey close when she collapses onto his chest, and when her hot, panting mouth presses against his throat in a claiming kiss, he can hold out no longer.

Spilling all he has into her tight, wet heat, he fills her and adds to her slickness with his own. He cannot tell where the one of them ends and the other begins, and it does not matter, for they are one in that moment. Maybe their bodies and souls have so intertwined that they will be one in every moment after.

The haze of their ecstasy, sweat-slicked and pulse-pounding, embraces them for some uncountable length of time before slowly lifting. Still dazed, Ben can only form one clear thought, which careens against the inside of his mind until it escapes from his lips.

“I love you.”

There is a long moment of silence, except for the roaring in his ears. Shite. Bollocks. Damm it all—

“Truly?”

The surprise in Rey’s voice surprises him. “Truly. I had thought it must be patently obvious by now, though I did not mean to spring it upon you so suddenly—”

His wife huffs, pushing herself up from his chest to look him in the eye. “Well, it was not obvious. How should I know the difference between a man who is fond and one who is in love?”

Ben’s heart is pounding for a far less pleasant reason than that of a quarter-hour ago.

If he has upset her, so quickly, after such a marvelous start to their marriage—oh! He hopes against hope that she will not pull away from him entirely.

“I know there were other reasons we—you—agreed to marriage,” he flounders. “I do not expect you to return the sentiment, though I cannot help but hope that in time—”

“I have loved you since the moment you smiled at me upon the front steps,” Rey interrupts him, cheeks deeply flushed and hair a tangled mess about her slim shoulders. “Or—perhaps before, but that is when I knew it was love, for it could not be anything else that made me wish to see your smile every hour of every day, for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh,” he manages. And then he is smiling very widely indeed (she loves him, she loves him, his wife loves him) and rolling her over to kiss her as thoroughly as he can while they are both grinning and laughing in sheer, giddy joy.

“I love you.” She kisses the words against his lips.

“I think I have loved you since you so cleverly cajoled me into sending a not-so-proper young lady a pamphlet on the subject of bedsport,” he counters, nipping at her perfect Cupid’s bow. “No, earlier—since you called me a disagreeable knave who must have grievances with all the interesting colours.”

“Well, I certainly did not love you then,” Rey admits, laughing. “But I love you all the more now, you see.”

“Enough to endure a few moments in my company, and pardon my occasionally ungentlemanly manners?”

“Your manners have been very gentlemanly,” she assures him, with a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. (That is decidedly not true, but it is charming that she thinks so.) “And since you instructed me not to hold back—indeed, you encouraged me to be most unladylike—”

“Are you referring to your volume or to riding astride?” Ben teases.

“Are you referring to riding astride a horse, or your own person?”

As both questions were largely rhetorical to begin with, additional laughter and kisses suffice as answer.

“As I was saying,” Rey tells him once they part to breathe again, “husband, I think after a light but fortifying supper it ought to be time for you to be a little less concerned about gentlemanly behavior.”

“Oh? Tell me your meaning plainly, sweet wife.” Good lord, he shall have to work hard to keep up with her, and count himself thrice lucky for it.

Rey wraps a leg around his hip and meets his eyes in spirited challenge.

“I mean, my love, that you must begin to tell me of all the ways you have imagined me beneath you, that we might thoroughly explore them together.”

Chapter Text

Spring 1815

Alderaan, March 25th

My dearest Ben,

I have just returned from visiting Lord and Lady Huxley—or, more precisely, the new addition to their nursery, who demanded the largest share of my attention with her wide blue eyes, downy-soft cheeks, and ten perfect wee fingers and toes. They have named her Violet, and she seems impossibly tiny, but she and her dear mother are both as healthy and happy as can be, and doted on by the very picture of a proud papa.

Reportedly, one of the Dowager’s cousins made some comment that the former Lord Huxley would have thought it a shame to have a firstborn daughter rather than a son—to which the current Lord Huxley (reportedly short of both sleep and temper) remarked, “Well! Then I think it no shame that he is dead! He may roll over in his grave all he wishes so long as he does not disturb my daughter’s rest.”

Rose says that we are lucky in Alderaan to have an heir either way. Of course, that will not stop the opinions of those in Town, but then I suppose nothing can keep the ton from its unsolicited gossip. And we are certainly fortunate to have friends such as Mr. Dameron and Mr. Storm; once again, give them both my best and convey that they are welcome to visit Alderaan again this summer.

I realized after we said farewell yesterday morning that it has been seven months since my great-uncle passed, and I was uncharacteristically teary-eyed, but do not fret—your mother told me so many stories of his younger years that I felt closer to him than ever.

Your father and I also spent some time reviewing new stud candidates for Falcon, since last year’s never earned her favour. However, that brings me to my next bit of news. Do you recall when we had a very long excursion on one of the fine warm days last August, and we discovered towards evening that the horses—Kestrel and Grimtaash, to be exact—had pulled their pickets and were grazing by the stream? I thought nothing of it then except as a mark of how very preoccupied we had been, but I now surmise that our steeds had quite an eventful afternoon themselves, for Kestrel is expected to bear a foal this summer.

The stable master tried to apologize for this unexpected development; I did my utmost to reassure him that it probably occurred on our watch, as it were, without alluding to the fact that we must have been engaged in similar activities! This was certainly not how I planned to consider breeding either horse—I fear the foal will be excessively spirited if it inherits the combined temperament of its sire and dam—but given that I am not permitted to ride at present, the timing is fortuitous.

Do you suppose you will still be home this Wednesday eve? Five days did not seem so very long when we parted, but—oh! you must forgive me a little sentimentality and not take it as cause for true concern—I have been restless at night and all the warming pans in the world cannot make up for the warmth of my husband. I admit, too, that this month’s symptoms continue to include the kind of hunger that cannot be sated by anything from the kitchens, and I am aching to have you in any (or perhaps every) way possible.

Now, do not mistake the above for complaint or recrimination. I stand by what we agreed, which is that Alderaan must be represented in Parliament; and if you did not vote as your father’s proxy, he should be obliged to go; and furthermore, if I accompanied you, your parents would come regardless, defeating the whole purpose of sparing the rest of us a muddy, miserable journey.

You know all this, but I have written it out regardless as a reminder that there is no need to feel guilty nor to call for the carriage at this very minute—only that I dearly hope to have you in my arms again soon.

With all my love, always,
Your wife,

Rey Solo

—

London, March 28th

My beloved wife,

I have not time to remark fully on all the news of our neighbors nor our horses, except to say that a foal is certainly unexpected but not unwelcome news. If I recall Grimtaash’s lineage correctly, there is a high chance the foal will develop a similar silver dapple.

I am heartily glad to say that Parliament has nearly finished deliberating and we are expected to vote this afternoon. I shall set out for Alderaan first thing to-morrow. It is just gone noon now, so I mean to send this by express courier that it shall serve its purpose and alert you of my arrival before I am riding up the drive. Dameron shall tease me for paying the extra guinea, but he does not have an expectant wife whom he misses greatly. My duty in Parliament does not feel half so important as my duty to keep you cared for, warm, and satisfied in every possible respect. I am counting down the hours until I can hold you again. And I promise, darling, I shall thoroughly reward you for your patience.

Your ever-devoted husband,

Benjamin Solo

—

The Solo family has just finished the soup course when a footman comes in with the news that their fourth member is riding up the drive. Although the duke and duchess have assuredly not missed Ben a quarter so much as his wife has, all three of them leave the supper table to greet him in the entrance hall.

It is clearly not a night for standing on ceremony, and thus Rey abandons decorum and flings herself at her husband the moment he crosses the threshold, heedless of his rain-splattered riding coat. In his embrace, she can breathe easy for the first time in five days. And although it is a different fit, with her growing belly pressed between them, it is somehow still a perfect one.

“Welcome home, Benjamin,” the duchess says.

“Good evening, darling,” Ben murmurs to Rey, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. To his mother, he replies, “I am very glad to be home.”

“We were just at supper,” Han adds. “Come, join us.”

“You shall wish to change first.” Leia counters the possibility of muddy breeches in the dining-room.

Rey reluctantly unwraps her arms from around her husband in order to save him from the fussing of his parents. “I shall see him settled,” she tells them with the polite firmness she has learned from the duchess herself. “And in the meantime, please do not delay the rest of supper on our account.”

“I apologize for my ill-timed arrival.” Ben hands his hat and coat to Mr. Pio and wipes his boots on the door-mat.

“Nonsense,” Leia says crisply. “Much better that you are home now than still on the roads in the dark and rain.”

“Quite right.” Han offers the duchess his arm. “Rey has everything well in hand,” he says, to her relief. “We shall only be in the way.”

Rey directs Mr. Pio to have a basin of hot water sent up, but when she and Ben walk towards the family wing, he quickens his pace and steers her towards his study, which is much closer than the bedrooms up-stairs.

Her heart beats faster, for she thinks she comprehends his plan, but she asks, “Do you not wish to go up and change for supper?”

Ben halts in the hallway and pulls her into his arms to kiss her thoroughly, his hands reacquainting themselves with all her curves. She forgets her query entirely until his warm lips trail from her mouth to her ear and he growls, “No, I think you shall be my supper. The sweetest meal I have ever had.”

It is a good thing he is holding her up, for Rey’s legs no longer wish to support her weight as Ben bends to kiss the tops of her breasts, revealed for him by the cut of her supper gown. “These shall be my first course.”

After several days of longing for his touch, Rey cannot help but moan his name, then the appellation that he equally loves to hear from her lips: “Husband, please. Do not tease—I cannot bear it—”

With his arms still around her, Ben hurries them into his study and closes the door firmly. Rey was in here earlier to keep the accounts, and the room is still warm, though the fire is banked now. She finds herself leaning against the desk as her husband falls to his knees and kisses the curve of her belly, murmuring something too low for her to hear.

Before she can complain again of teasing, he turns his face up to her, eyes dark and filled with desire that reflects her own.

“You wrote that you ache for me, darling. Tell me how I can make it better.”

“You know how.” She cants her hips towards his clever mouth, with the utter lack of shame they enjoy together in private.

“Ah, but I want to hear it directly from your lips.” Ben’s hands caress her waist, her hips, her arse, and her belly once again. “After all, there are so many choices, and we have quite a few contenders for a favourite position.” A kiss at the apex of her thighs makes her shudder against his mouth. “You must tell me what you wish for, after waiting so patiently for my return.”

Rey tries not to whine, but it is a near thing. “Fine. I wish to ride your face as you are so clearlyeager for, and then I should like you to fuck me over the chaise quite vigorously.”

“An excellent plan.” Ben is already raking her skirts up; the cool leather of his riding gloves on her bare thighs makes her shiver. “I have missed you dreadfully.”

“And I, you,” she manages. “As I wrote—oh—”

Words elude her now. She leans against the desk, knees quivering as Ben devours her with an enthusiasm wholly unsuitable for the supper table, the vibration of his groans echoing through her. His mouth is hot against her, and the leather of his gloves warms where they grip her thighs and encourage her to grind her hips against his face.

As she was in such a state of agitation already—in truth, her letter had rather understated how desperately she has been craving him—it does not take her long to reach one quivering, clenching peak on her husband’s talented tongue. Rey knows from experience that he will continue until she can scarcely recall her own name—but she is too impatient to be fully joined with him again, so she tugs him to his feet and towards the chaise, where she gropes at the fastenings of his breeches.

 As soon as she gets the buttons undone, Ben turns her around and bends her over the chaise; he has to shove aside her blasted skirts all over again, but undressing would take far too much time, and Rey wants him inside her now.

Ben takes her hands and places them on the sides of the chaise with a firm squeeze. “Hold on tight, darling. I mean to fulfill your request most diligently.”

Rey clings to the blessedly solid piece of furniture very tightly indeed, and groans with mingled relief and need as he pushes into her. One of his still-gloved hands clasps her hip, just the way she likes him to grip her, and the other slides between the cushions of the chaise to cradle her belly, supporting the extra weight of the babe she carries.

“Have you been thinking about this all day?” Ben breathes, bending over to whisper in her ear. “Is that why you were utterly soaking wet before I even touched you?”

“Y—yes,” she pants, tilting her hips up further so he can thrust all the way home. “Needed you—need you.”

“I am here now,” he croons, gentle in contrast to the slap of his hips against her backside. “I have you.”

“More—harder,” Rey begs him, even as her legs tremble. Her pulse is racing faster than her thoughts, giving way to a word she has learned but not yet spoken aloud: “Please fuck me harder, Ben—I shall not break—”

Ben’s hips stutter as he lets out a long, nearly pained, groan.

“Did I say that right?” she gasps. “It seems a better word than tupping, does it n—”

“Yes, wife,” he growls. She can tell that he is fighting and failing to keep his voice low. “Say it again, you maddeningly—perfect—creature.”

Each collision of their hips grinds her centre against the firm velvet arm of the chaise, sending heat coiling through her every nerve.

“Oh—fuck me harder, husband, please—”

Rey muffles a scream when she peaks again, Ben’s profane praises echoing in her ears. His pace slows, but the depth of his thrusts remains the same, filling her to overflowing perfection as he gasps out her name.

When the shuddering waves of her climax recede, Ben drops his face to the crook of her shoulder, lips moving against her skin. “How many times, sweet wife?”

“Hmm?”

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was away, and wish that your husband were here to pleasure you instead?” His hips rock once through the mess they have made.

“I did—ah—perhaps understate the extent of my recent need,” she admits breathlessly. There is no point in dissembling now. “I rather lost count, I am afraid.”

“Oh, my poor darling,” he murmurs, with all apparent sincerity. “Then I must make it up to you until we lose count, likewise.”

“You must eat supper at some point,” Rey points out, though she has not the least objection to the gist of his plan. “You have been traveling all day.”

“And you are eating for two.” Ben kisses the curve of her neck before sliding out of her with a groan. “Let me carry you up-stairs and call for a tray. We can finish supper, and then I shall kiss every inch of you for my dessert course.”

—

The first, most obvious, benefit to Ben carrying her is that she does not have to walk up the stairs—truly, who knew that barely half a stone around her midsection would already be such a burden. The second, hidden benefit is that it somewhat conceals the dishevelment of both their clothes, affording them a modicum of dignity as Ben requests a supper tray. And the third benefit (her particular favorite) is that she can remain in his arms and rest her head against his strong shoulder while he carries her to their rooms.

“What a diligent husband you are,” she murmurs, combing her fingers through his travel-tousled hair.

“Did I not tell you from the first that I would take the responsibilities of being a husband very seriously indeed?” Ben sets her on the bed and fusses with the pillows behind her.

“Amidst many protests about supposedly unfounded accusations! Had I known that your definition of husbandly duties included personally carrying your wife to bed and bringing her to peak after peak, I might have comprehended that she would be a lucky woman.”

Ben gives her one of the wry, crooked grins that she so loves and bends to kiss her tenderly. “No, darling—it is I who am the lucky one.”

—

Summer 1815

Aldera Hall, July 22

“What do you think, Kathie? Is this to be your horse someday?” Rey kneels with her daughter on her hip to admire the wobbly little foal hiding behind Kestrel’s legs.

Leaning against the paddock fence, Ben frowns. “She ought to learn to ride on a pony, or perhaps Falcon.”

“I only said someday,” Rey counters tartly. She stands up, wincing when Katherine’s tiny flailing fist—waving to the horses, she would like to think—smacks her shoulder with surprising force. “Or perhaps she wishes be a champion boxer, instead.”

Ben holds out his arms for a giggling Kathie. “No practicing boxing on your mama,” he tells her mock-sternly, hoisting her in the air until she squeals and kicks her chubby legs. “Indeed, no boxing at all, Miss Solo. There are plenty of other things you may do that shall worry your parents much less.”

“As if you would not worry over her taking up cricket, or attending Oxford.” Rey gives Kestrel an extra apple and strokes the mare’s cream forehead blaze.

“Oxford does not yet have a college for ladies,” Ben points out, a furrow appearing between his brows. Kathie grabs at his nose from where he holds her up, until he tucks her against his chest, at an angle such that she can watch her mother and the horses.

“Oh, I know.” With a final pat to Kestrel’s nose, Rey steps back and goes on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek—then her daughter’s, deftly evading the latter’s attempt to seize her hair. “That is why your mother and I are planning a ladies’ lecture series with a strategic selection of invitees, which shall lay the groundwork for our campaign to establish such a college by the time Kathie is of an age to attend, should she wish.”

Ben blinks, too distracted to notice that the young lady in question is currently drooling on his waistcoat. “I see,” he manages. “Did you not wish to consult the one member of the household who has attended the university? Tutors would be easier, certainly, but I hope you were not questioning my support for the matter.”

Rey tucks her arm into Ben’s and begins leading her two favourite people in the world back towards the house, for it is nearing Kathie’s nap-time.

“Of course not,” she reassures him. “I know well that you are no hypocrite when it comes to the subject of ladies’ education, and we shall certainly value your counsel. But you have been very busy between estate matters and Parliament—not to mention doting on both Kathie and myself—and I did not wish you to fret yet over the thought that she shall one day grow up and perhaps wish to attend university.”

“I can handle a little fretting,” Ben objects, even as he holds his daughter closer and kisses her mop of dark curls, just a shade lighter than his own. “That day is very far away yet, is it not, Kathie?”

The youngest Solo makes an emphatic gurgle of agreement—or disagreement, or perhaps she simply wishes to participate in the conversation.

“She is growing so fast,” Rey sighs, stroking her daughter’s little slipper where it peeks out from under her gown. “I suppose that is to be expected when she eats and sleeps as she does.”

When they reach the nursery, Ben shakes his head at the nanny and begins to pace the hallway with Kathie in his arms, bouncing her at every step.

“On the subject of sleep,” he says, in a low voice, “perhaps I could persuade you to have a rest at the same time as Kathie?”

“Oh, I do not require a nap,” Rey begins, before she catches her husband’s meaningful glance. “But—perhaps a quiet hour or so reading. Would you care to join me? The Royal Society’s journal has just arrived with a new article from William Herschel—and I have also received a fascinating piece of French literature which may prompt some scientific inquiries of my own.”

“Is that so?” Ben lifts an eyebrow, eyes darkening. “Anything I might assist you with?”

“As it happens, yes. Oh—she is asleep.” Indeed, Kathie’s eyes are closed and the patch of drool on Ben’s clothing has grown significantly. “You shall have to change your waistcoat,” Rey whispers.

“Perhaps my kind and helpful wife could aid me with that, and I can volunteer my person to aid in her studies?” Ben murmurs as he enters the nursery, carefully slowing his pace until he can transfer Kathie to her cradle.

Rey nudges the wooden cradle with her hip to rock it gently. “Your presence is in fact integral to my line of inquiry,” she murmurs back. “If it would not be an imposition.”

Ben’s hand finds hers, and he raises it to his lips as they linger to gaze at their sleeping daughter. “It would be my pleasure,” he whispers, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “In fact, there is nothing I would rather do.”